


Enjolras: Reborn

by VoidEntity999



Series: Enjolras: Reborn [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Art History, Body Horror, Death and Rebirth, Domestic Fluff, God vs Science, M/M, Necromancy, References to Frankenstein, Romanticism, The Enlightenment, We'll call it Victorian, ambiguous time period
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2020-11-27 10:11:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20946632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoidEntity999/pseuds/VoidEntity999
Summary: Here. It had happened here. A man died here, and yet, the space on the table was empty, no sign of his existence whatsoever. As Grantaire took another step, he tripped, stumbling across the metal prongs he had dropped the night before. His breathing hitched at the sight--a pair of bloody footprints led away from the table, as though the body had just gotten up and walked away.In which the brilliant but misunderstood artist brings a revolutionary to life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [What Fine Marble](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13610343) by [juanjoltaire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/juanjoltaire/pseuds/juanjoltaire). 

> Hey guys!
> 
> I'm taking a hiatus from my other fic to write this spooky one in time for Halloween. After re-watching part of Penny Dreadful, I was inspired by Victor and Lily Frankenstein's dynamic of "I brought this thing to life, but it's really hot, but it could kill me, but also it's really hot" and I just couldn't pass the idea up! That and I wanted to do a dark Frankenstein retelling of Juanjoltaire's amazing retelling of the Pygmalion myth. Hope you like it!
> 
> EDIT: I've been asked if the paintings are important, and the short answer is yes. Caravaggio lived several centuries earlier, but I brought his work back because it's thematically relevant, and despite the time difference the paintings serve as imagery for the story (like a picture book?). I'm including links so it's easier to follow along.

### Prelude

_The afterlife is strange_, Grantaire thought as he awoke on smooth, cool sheets. Out the window, the sky was very blue. He slowly sat up, his limbs slowly remembering movement, and saw that the room was spacious and quiet. It looked very similar to his house, but something seemed different. 

A young woman startled upon seeing him. She said something which didn't quite reach him, and to be honest, he felt embarrassed that he hadn't noticed her there, using some sort of feathered instrument to knock dust off the shelves. She was staring at him now with wide eyes, and before he could think of anything to say, she fled the room, leaving him alone, wondering what it was he had done to frighten her. 

Before he had the chance to contemplate further, however, no sooner had he looked up that he saw the most handsome man he had ever laid eyes upon--standing in the doorway. 

An angel standing in the doorway. _He must be here to greet me_.

The angel said something. "Do not be afraid," it might as well have been, since Grantaire couldn't make sense of it. He came towards Grantaire and sat beside him on the bed, and looking upon his face more carefully, he couldn't help but sense that it was familiar. He knew this one.

"Enjolras?"

***

Grantaire looked up as Enjolras entered the dining room. The angel met his gaze, but was quickly distracted by the maid, who caught his arm, seeming upset about something. He gave her a serious, concerned expression, glancing back at Grantaire at least once during the conversation before answering her in a calm, graceful manner. After a brief conversation, she hastily left the room. Grantaire watched as Enjolras approached where he sat at head of the table, and took the chair next to him. He reached out and placed a hand on Grantaire's, immediately granting him a sense of calm. He smiled kindly. 

Louison entered the room again, carrying a plate of food. She set it in front of Enjolras, and he thanked her. She left, and he picked up a fork and knife and began to cut a slice of ham. After taking a bite, he paused to glance at Grantaire, and said, 

"....should eat, too." He gestured towards Grantaire with his fork. 

Grantaire looked down and saw there was already a plate before him. He remembered now, that Louison had set it there, but he hadn't really felt like eating, so he did nothing. He must have forgotten about it. But now that Enjolras was here, he felt hungry, and it did look good. He picked up a fork and followed Enjolras' lead. 

Enjolras seemed pleased. "So.......," he began, and Grantaire listened as he continued to eat, suddenly seeming hungrier than ever before. His brain still felt to be in a fog, but he was beginning to understand Enjolras more and more.

Enjolras continued. "We should talk about.......... Do you know where you are?"

"Yes," answered Grantaire. "I'm in heaven."

That made Enjolras laugh. "..know_ who_ you are?" When this caused Grantaire more than a second of thought, he lifted a hand. "....start with this, what's your name?"

Grantaire set down his fork. "My name?"

"Yes."

Grantaire thought hard. It was strange, how was it he couldn't even remember his own name?

"Enjolras," he answered after some time.

Enjolras's look of concern deepened. "No, that's my name."

Grantaire nodded. He knew Enjolras was right, but he had had no idea what else to answer. 

Enjolras took a deep breath and gazed at him thoughtfully. "Grantaire."

"Grantaire," repeated Grantaire. The word felt foreign in his mouth, but he would get used to it. If Enjolras said that was his name, that was his name.

"Yes," replied Enjolras, a tired smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Your name is Grantaire, and....live in London."

"I live in...." Grantaire's voice faded as he became lost in thought. "I used to live in London?"

"You live in London," Enjolras repeated. "That's where we are." 

He frowned and reached out to take Grantaire's hand again, and Grantaire paused from his meal and watched him with interest. 

"...know that you died," Enjolras explained.

"Yes," replied Grantaire, "and this is the afterlife."

"No," said Enjolras. "....came back to life. We're at your home in London."

Grantaire blinked. "And you're an angel?"

Enjolras laughed again. "No. I'm a friend. More than a friend." He sighed. "....one day understand how close we were."

Grantaire's gaze fell. He saw as Enjolras held his hand, one of his fingers sported a ring. On his own left hand, he also seemed to be wearing a ring. 

"But you're named Enjolras," Grantaire argued. "That's an angel's name."

"You gave me that name," said Enjolras. "I came back to life, same as you."

Grantaire was entirely unsure how to respond to that one. 

After another silence between them, Enjolras sat up. ".....n't worry," he said in an assuring tone. "...already quite recovered, you'll be back on your feet in no time."

Grantaire wasn't sure what he meant, but he nodded.

***

### Chapter 1

~ _Fi__ve years earlier ~_

The long auditorium door lurched as Grantaire opened it. The dark recesses of the hall were in contrast to the light that fell in through a skylight to the center of the university auditorium. He quietly slid into one of the back seats, the outermost rows empty as the medical students all crowded around the central table, watching as their instructor worked on a cadaver.

Grantaire leaned closer and frowned. From where he was sitting, he could just barely make out as the man carefully made an incision along the body's chest. He grimaced, confirming his choice to sit at a distance as the skin was peeled back to reveal the chest cavity. The instructor's voice echoed in the hall as he spoke, although Grantaire couldn't quite make out the words. Ribs were removed, and finally, after some careful preparations with gloved hands, Grantaire watched as he held up the heart, pointing and explaining, many of the students hurriedly scribbling in their notes.

When the lecture was dismissed, Grantaire was so distracted that he didn't notice his friends pass by.

"Grantaire!"

He lifted his head to see Combeferre, walking aside Joly as they exited the auditorium.

"You could have just waited outside; you didn't need to see the lecture," Combeferre continued. He frowned. "You're not squeamish, are you?"

Grantaire let out a breath, not realising he had been holding it. "Not at all."

"Oh. Good." Combeferre gave a kind smile. "Shall we go?"

"Right, then," Grantaire said as he stood, and they followed the flood of students into the lobby.

"Where are you two going?" Joly asked, lifting an eyebrow in amusement. "What hi-jinks are you boys up to?"

"I've come across some lab equipment that requires special accommodations," Combeferre explained as they descended the steps outside the building's colonnade. "R has been kind to allow me to set it up in his studio. Would you like to come see?"

"Is it dangerous?" Joly wondered with a frown.

"No," said Combeferre with an easy smile. "At least..." a foreboding pause, "Not if used properly. The professor that's given it to me has used it several times without incident."

"So it's for a school project?"

"No, this is just for pure curiosity," Combeferre explained. "Otherwise, I don't think R would want me to be intruding his residence so often."

Joly looked to Grantaire, who shrugged in agreement. "I must say," he concluded, "I am intrigued. Let's go, then."

***

The three of them climbed the stairs to a spacious attic space, a space much in contrast to Grantaire's humble living area directly beneath it.

"There," said Combeferre, setting a crate of supplies on a table. He pointed to the skylight in the center of the angled ceiling. "Let's move it under there."

"Perhaps if we get some of these out of the way, first," said Joly with a grin as he held up one of the empty bottles that littered the artist's workspace.

"Shut up," said Grantaire, swiping it out of his hand.

Once the table was free of bottles, paint stained tins, and other detritus, Joly and Grantaire helped to move the table, positioning it under the window. The sky was a regular grey London day, no chance for sun. A pitter-patter of rain could be heard on the other side. Combeferre requested Grantaire bring a ladder, to which he obliged, while Joly pawed through the box's contents, a jumble of wires and metal objects.

"What on Earth do you plan to use these for?" he asked.

Combeferre's eyes were lit up in excitement behind his spectacles, as they had been for the past few hours. "You'll see." He began to assemble the pieces.

Joly and Grantaire watched, helping to hold or move things around upon request. Together, they opened the skylight a hair to extend a long metal rod, and attached it to the equipment on the table.

"Now we wait," said Combeferre.

"What do you mean?" Grantaire asked, doubtfully surveying the setup. A simple compass was set between two metal poles. "Does it come to life of its own accord?"

"The storm is on its way," said Combeferre, his eyes skyward. "We have to wait for lightning to strike."

An hour passed, and Grantaire acted the host to pour some wine for them while they made friendly conversation.

"This is much less exciting than I imagined," said Joly, who had taken to wandering about the room: "although these paintings are a riot." He studied Grantaire's works: some resting on easels, some on the floor against the brick walls, all at varying stages of completion.

"That one's interesting," he said, standing before a picture of pilgrims bowing to the feet of the [Virgin Mary and child](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Madonna_di_Loreto_\(Caravaggio\)#/media/File:Madonna_di_Loreto-Caravaggio_\(c.1604-6\).jpg). "Eponine posed for that one?"

"She did." Grantaire appeared beside him. The work was quite dark in color, the characters much more commonplace and rugged than the typically idealized subject matter. The expressions on the peoples' faces bled passion, awe, agony.

Joly gave a laugh as he surveyed the next painting. In the same style as the first painting, two men carried [Christ's body](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Entombment_of_Christ_\(Caravaggio\)#/media/File:Caravaggio_-_La_Deposizione_di_Cristo.jpg) to the grave, all the figures wearing clothes from the present day. "A modern day crucifixion. R, it's like you're trying to play God with these."

Grantaire lifted an eyebrow, taking the thought into consideration. Taking a sip of wine, he shrugged. "I paint what I see."

"No one's interested in biblical works these days, I imagine," Combeferre weighed in. "As science becomes more widely accepted as the voice of reason, perhaps Christianity will fade into obscurity, like the rest of mythology."

Joly coughed up some wine in a bit of laughter. "Did you hear that, R? According to Combeferre, you're going to lose what little patronage you have left."

"That's not what I meant!" said Combeferre, straightening his posture in his chair. "R, your works are quite good. I'm sure your talent can stand on its own."

"What kind sentiments," said the artist, his attention barely detracted from one of his easels. The scene was the [conversion of St. Paul](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Conversion_on_the_Way_to_Damascus#/media/File:Conversion_on_the_Way_to_Damascus-Caravaggio_\(c.1600-1\).jpg), the moment where the soldier has been flung off his horse, blinded by the light of the Holy Spirit. He knelt down before it, picking up a pencil and sketching a few lines over the paint. The work could have been considered finished, but at that moment, the vision had landed on Grantaire's brain, however slight, that Paul's hand should be modeled this way, that an eyelid should be shaped like that. He thus defaced his own work, risking that the edit would be an improvement.

When the crack of lightning sounded, the disparity from the previous silence of the room had been so great as to launch the three of them into standing position.

"It's time!" Combeferre announced, and they gathered around the table to view the apparatus. He made some adjustments, throwing a switch.

"What do we do?" asked Joly, peering over the compass.

"Would you like to try it?" asked Combeferre, handing him the two metal rods. "Careful. Make sure to only touch the rubber parts; or it may shock you."

"'It may shock you'?" repeated Joly in protest. "I thought you said this wouldn't be dangerous."

"I said it wouldn't be dangerous _if used properly_," Combeferre corrected. "Now, hold them on either side of the compass, and we'll have to wait for another strike of lightning."

Joly nodded, following the instructions. The three of them waited in silent anticipation until the the next cackling sound, that lightning had struck twice.

"Oh!" Joly cried, watching as the needle on the compass began to spin wildly. "Look!" he said in delight, and as he moved the poles about, the spinning of the needle would change speed.

"Isn't it something?" said Combeferre, well pleased with the experiment. "Just think, perhaps some day, we could engineer whole machines to move with the same kind of energy."

"You think so?" Joly wondered. He looked to Grantaire, who was watching very silently. "Would you like to try it, R?"

"I'm good, thank you," said his friend, taking a reserved step back. He continued to watch as Joly and Combeferre played around with the apparatus. As they chatted excitedly, Grantaire tuned them out, listening to the sound of rain on the window pane above.

***

The sky was overcast, although the air warm one morning as Grantaire entered the pub. Making his way through the smoke filled room, he spotted his friends Joly and Bossuet at a table, and sat down with them.

"Did you hear of LeMarque's passing?" mused Bossuet, swallowing a mouthful of bread.

"Did he," Joly retorted. "The man was the only patron R had left."

Grantaire didn't say anything, although looked relieved to see the waitress place another bottle on their table.

"I can't believe that," Bossuet countered. "R is a talented artist. He only had one patron?"

"My work has been turned down by many others on several occasions," Grantaire explained with a grave tone. "Something about it being 'unflattering' to the church."

"LeMarque was a sort of family friend, took pity on him from time to time," Joly told his companion. Grantaire nodded.

"So you're going to his funeral, then?" asked Bossuet. "I hear it's this afternoon."

"I haven't decided yet," said Grantaire, staring at the bottle as he idly twisted it round with his fingers as it sat on the tabletop. He released his hand with a sigh. "I'd prefer not to."

"Well, then, here's to General LeMarque," said Bossuet, raising a glass. "May he rest in peace."

"Cheers," said the others, and they clinked glasses.

Some time passed as they drank, ate, and talked, Grantaire trying not to remember the circumstances.

"R, do you still have that equipment from Combeferre's experiment?" Joly asked.

"Experiment?" wondered Bossuet. "What experiment?"

"It was quite clever," Joly explained with interest. "He set it up in R's studio..."

As he began to retell the story to Bossuet, Grantaire rose intently.

"What's wrong with you?" Joly asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"I think...I believe I should go to the funeral. I should pay my respects."

Bossuet checked his pocket watch. "It's being held a ways out of the city. By now I'm not sure you'd make it there in time."

"I should visit his grave, then," said Grantaire. His expression was tired, but resolute. "It's the least I can do."

"A noble goal," said Joly, also rising to the occasion. "I'll come with you. And what about you, Boss?"

He shook his head. "I shall be at work early tomorrow, so I'm afraid not. I'll keep the bed warm for you."

"Very well. I'll see you later, then," said Joly, and he turned to leave with Grantaire.

"What was that?" asked Grantaire once they were outside. "You mean to say that you and Bossuet share a bed?"

"As roommates, yes," Joly admitted. "We've grown quite fond of each other in our time together. Now, come, I shall fetch a horse and carriage."

***

The trip to the countryside was rather uneventful. They reached the grave by sunset, Grantaire taking his time to kneel before it and say a few parting words. The alcohol had quite hit him by then, and he lay on his side, asleep in the uncovered wagon as Joly drove them back towards the city. In the darkness, a lone figure lingered by the road.

Grantaire's eyes fluttered open as he heard an exchange between his friend and a stranger.

"Alrigh' then, wots it gonna be?"

The voice was unfamiliar, coarse and vulgar. Joly sounded anxious in response.

"P-please, don't kill me. I swear, I left my coin purse at home. It was just an accident!"

"An' it'll be an 'accident' if my knife touches yer throat before you quit lyin' about where yer hidin' yer money!"

Grantaire's eyes were wide open at this point, searching about the carriage for anything he could use against the attacker. Under the seat in front of him was one of Joly's canes, a heavy thing with metallic fixtures on either end. He seized it, and having gathered his wits, he jumped from the wagon to descend on the highwayman, striking him in the back.

The man, tall and dark haired, fell to the ground, Grantaires's weight resting on top of him. He rolled over quickly, his expression filled with malicious intent, and thinking fast, Grantaire seized the knife from his hands. That didn't stop him from lashing out at Grantaire, clawing at him in desperation. Equally terrified, Grantaire wielded the knife, making a few cuts until the man was able to throw him off. Shuffling around his feet, he dodged a few of the robber's blows until memories surfaced from his days of foot fencing. He launched a powerful kick into the man's stomach, successfully knocking him over, rendered defenseless.

"That's that," said Grantaire, resting for only a second until he heard a horrendous sound, that of a dying man gasping for breath. Joly took a lantern and leaned over the body, and in the dim light, the man's face was going blue.

"Why is that?" asked Grantaire. "I kicked him in the stomach."

"The trauma to his diaphragm has caused a pneumothorax," Joly explained, removing the man's shirt. "Here, hand me the knife."

"His what has caused a what?" said Grantaire, but as his friend jabbed an open hand at him, he followed the instruction and handed him the knife.

"I've only seen this done once," said Joly, and nothing could have prepared Grantaire to see his friend stab a man in the chest. Laboured breathing returned, but it didn't sound good.

Grantaire held the lantern over and gazed upon the face of the man. He was whimpering ever so slightly, and the eyes that cast him such a sinister gaze mere minutes ago were now tightly closed, innocent as a child trying to sleep. "What have I done?" Grantaire breathed, his lips quivering. "I-I've killed him."

"He's growing cold," said Joly. "There should be a blanket in the wagon."

Grantaire fetched the thick wool cloth as Joly held the man in his arms. "What are we going to do?" he said upon returning. "Do you think he'll live?"

"I'm not sure," Joly answered in a tone that didn't have Grantaire convinced in the slightest. He ripped a piece of cloth from the man's shirt and began to cover a knife wound on the man's arm. "Shall we take him to your studio? It's not far from here, and there I may be able to bandage him more easily."

Grantaire nodded, and together, they carried the man to the wagon.

***

Rain had begun to fall again as they brought the body upstairs. Grantaire helped Joly spread him on a table, and then returned with some candles to bring light.

By now Joly had successfully stitched together and bandaged the man's wounds, although a knife still stuck out of his chest.

"Do you plan to remove that?" asked Grantaire, grimacing at strange sight.

"Yes, but it really must be done with caution," said Joly, studying the man's chest.

The man still had not opened his eyes, but his breath was faint. A frown of ever increasing worry remained on Grantaire's face.

"What if he doesn't live," he wondered, "will we be charged with his murder?"

Joly frowned. "Do you think we can say it was self defence? He was planning to rob us, after all."

Just as he said that, the man started breathing harder. "I think the knife needs to come out," said Joly, speaking over the man's laboured breaths. "On three?"

Together, they pulled out the knife, the man's blood leaking onto the table. Joly got to work, bandaging the wound, but as Grantaire watched the man's expression, the scene turned grim. The man coughed up blood, and not knowing what else to do, Grantaire held his shoulders, keeping him in a curled position. In a few minutes, it was over.

Joly held two fingers to the man's neck, waiting silently. "He's gone," he concluded, putting a hand on Grantaire's shoulder. "I'm sorry."

Grantaire nodded, his face in his hands. Joly pulled the wool blanket over the body in front of him, and then stood back, clutching his elbows nervously.

"Do you think we'll get charged for murder? What should we do with the body?"

"I don't know," Grantaire whispered, clutching at his temples. "Eponine, her family seems the type to know people who dabble in such services. That's what I'll do." He rose suddenly, placing a hand on Joly's shoulder. "My friend, this is my fault. I shouldn't have roped you into this. You go home, and I'll...I'll have the body disposed of in the morning."

Joly frowned, their eyes meeting for a brief moment. He put a firm hand on Grantaire's arm and nodded. "Good. Then let's forget this ever happened." He turned to leave, but not before quickly wrapping his friend in a tight embrace, patting him on the back. Grantaire felt a tear stain his cheek, nodding into his friend's shoulder.

"It'll be okay," said Grantaire, more in assurance to himself than Joly.

***

An hour had passed after Joly left, in the pouring rain, which was unheard of for the man who always worried about trying to catch a cold. R remained in his studio, drinking wine and trying to purge his thoughts of the prior events.

His attempts to sleep having failed, he sat at an easel, dabbing at the conversion of Paul, or was it Saul in this instance? The man's name was changed after hearing the voice of God, allegedly. Grantaire stared at the horse and was reminded how hungry he was, and stood to venture into his pantry.

The small room was much neglected, filled with empty shelves and containers. He crouched to find a stale piece of bread in the corner, which was even too unpalatable for the dead rat that accompanied it.

"Have I killed you, too?" Grantaire voiced woefully. In his less than sober state, he picked up the small creature in his hands, lamenting the lost life. What was it, the difference between life and death? What made it that in once instant, this creature's heart was beating, and the next it was quiet, never to sound again?

He decided upon carrying it upstairs. He set the creature upon the table, leaving a few feet between it and the corpse in its shroud. Underneath candlelight, he took a knife to the poor thing's chest, cutting it open as he had seen that day, the day he visited the medical school's auditorium. With some care, he found the creature's tiny heart, lifeless and still.

A noise sounded and he jumped. Glancing around the room, he found it had come from a long rod reaching down from the ceiling. It was then he remembered Combeferre's equipment still remained on the end of the table. A vision touched his brain, and with the wine, his senses were dulled enough to entertain his worse ideas. Taking the metal prongs in his hands, he touched them to the heart of the creature, waiting for some sort of miracle.

As lightning hit, he was thrown back. Damn it! He had forgotten the proper handling of the equipment. As he lie on the floor, he could swear he heard the faintest sound of a beating heart. His eyes widened, and as he climbed to the table's level once more, he gazed upon the creature's open chest cavity to find--nothing. The creature's heart was still.

Grantaire took another sip of wine and sighed deeply. The events from hours before flashed before his eyes, remembering the fight that took place, the man's handsome grin before his attempts to fight back. He glanced over at the body-shaped outline in the blanket, feeling suddenly curious.

Slowly, he folded back the shroud to reveal the man's face. His memory had been correct in that it was a handsome one, with rather proud, elegant features. Rich black curls framed it in a pleasant manner. Pulling the sheet back further, Grantaire revealed his bare chest, where Joly's knife wound was still bandaged, bandages which no longer served a purpose.

Taking the knife, Grantaire cut the strips loose. His fingers touched the wound, grazing over it gently. It must have been positioned so as not to hit the heart.

The heart.

Grantaire's eyes widened. The heart. It must be...he counted the ribs, right here. An image crossed his mind, and he was unable to rid himself of it. No one would know what happened here, once the body was removed. He took the knife once more.

Steeling himself, he punctured the man's chest, and then a second time about an inch away. It would take another fair chug of wine before he found himself wielding the metal prongs, plunging them into the holes in the deceased man's chest.

His breath caught as he stood there, standing over the man in anticipation. He blinked an in an instant, it happened, the strike of lightning to the man's heart.

Ears ringing from the sound, Grantaire remained standing over the body. Squinting, he brought himself closer to the man's chest, examining it for any signs of life.

There were none.

Still holding onto the prongs, he lay his head on the man's sternum, trying to listen for the faint heartbeat, one he desperately wanted to hear.

There was none.

_You idiot_, he thought to himself. _You've done nothing but disturb this man's corpse._

He pulled the prongs out of their holes and his hands splayed open in a moment of weakness, dropping the metal to the floor. His feet dragging, he carried himself downstairs to his apartment, where he collapsed into bed.

***

When Grantaire was little, his mother took him to mass every Sunday. He watched as the priest spoke out against the sin of homosexuality, what cruel hell awaited those who would lie with another man.

He had since gone to church very little.

Grantaire awoke to a strange gnawing feeling--quite literally, as a rat was nibbling at his feet.

"Hey!" he shouted, sitting up and retracting his foot. The creature scurried away into a corner, and he frowned. The harsh sunlight of day broke in through the window.

Grantaire ascended the stairs to his studio, hesitantly approaching the table where lay the rat he had dissected the night before, still very much dead. He breathed a steady sigh of relief, running his hand along the wood of the table. He remembered his dream from last night, where he had attempted to bring a corpse back to life. Strange, it seemed that it all had happened right here on this table--

Grantaire froze.

Here. It had happened here. A man died here, and yet, the space on the table was empty, no sign of his existence whatsoever. As Grantaire took another step, he tripped, stumbling across the metal prongs he had dropped the night before. His breathing hitched at the sight--a pair of bloody footprints led away from the table, as though the body had just gotten up and walked away.

They led to the corner where he kept his paintings, and before Grantaire could investigate, he thought to call out.

"Hello? Is someone there?"

No answer.

Grantaire felt a chill run over his spine. A highwayman. The man was a highwayman. Perhaps he was weak, but Grantaire had a blood-thirsty killer loose in his studio. He armed himself with the knife before following the footprints.

He slowly approached the corner. His shadow was stretched along the floor as he passed through the beam of light which shone in through the roof, and from the darkness, he heard the sound of an uneven breathing, one he was sure to be other than his own.

"Hello?" he called again, still nothing.

The beam of light illuminated the portrait of Paul, and, slowly pushing the easel aside, Grantaire shed light on the creature, shivering as it huddled in the corner.

It immediately shielded its face from the light.

"Hey," said Grantaire, kneeling next to him. He set the knife down a safe distance away. "It's okay."

Slowly, the creature lowered his hands, his eyes adjusting to the light. Staring back at Grantaire, his irises were an unnatural hue, dark with crimson rings. His complexion was ghostly pale, and his lips were tinged an unhealthy purple. A wispy breath moved in and out of them.

"What is your name?" asked Grantaire, but the creature just stared back at him, uncertain but unafraid. He reached a hand out, gently brushing aside the blanket that was wrapped around him like a shawl. The creature made no protest as Grantaire traced with his fingers the three wounds to his chest, still open, the pale flesh curled back to reveal yellowed bone.

Grantaire retracted in slight horror, and the creature must have noticed, because he shivered as well. "I'm sorry," Grantaire quickly apologized, and hesitantly, he placed a hand on the creature's shoulder. His skin was cold to the touch. "M-my name is Grantaire," he managed.

The creatures lips contourted slightly. "G-grantaire?" he breathed, perfectly mimicking his tone and inflection.

The artist was astonished.

Standing up carefully, Grantaire looked down upon the thing with a deep worry. "Stay here while I bring you some food and water."

The creature stared back at him, watching silently. Grantaire nodded to his non-answer and quickly fled the room.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R's works are inspired by Caravaggio, namely:
> 
> [Conversion on the Way to Damascus](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Conversion_on_the_Way_to_Damascus#/media/File:Conversion_on_the_Way_to_Damascus-Caravaggio_\(c.1600-1\).jpg), 1601  
[Madonna di Loreto](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Madonna_di_Loreto_\(Caravaggio\)#/media/File:Madonna_di_Loreto-Caravaggio_\(c.1604-6\).jpg), 1606  
[The Entombment of Christ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Entombment_of_Christ_\(Caravaggio\)#/media/File:Caravaggio_-_La_Deposizione_di_Cristo.jpg), 1603  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Gave Jehan they/them pronouns because why not.

Grantaire paced nervously in his kitchen as eggs sizzled on the stove. The whole trip to the market, he had been in a daze. For starters, what do dead things eat? Was he dead? The way he moved, there was no way he could be completely _dead_. But Grantaire remembered his eyes, the ghostly pale complexion, the wounds that neither healed nor bled. Perhaps the only term that made sense in this instance was _un-_dead.

He set two place settings, and stood back, nodding to himself. There was only so much he could do to convince himself everything was normal.

As he opened the door to the studio, he called out. "Hello? It's me!"

He heard no answer, but as he ascended the stairs he was nearly frightened to see the man standing there, waiting for him to return. Grantaire looked him up and down; it seems he had found one of the artist's paint-stained smocks to cover his top half; beneath that, he still wore the trousers he had died in.

_Died in_, Grantaire repeated to himself. That would take some getting used to.

"Come here," said he said, gesturing in a friendly, albeit concerned manner. "I've prepared some breakfast."

The being just stood there, staring back at him vacantly. Grantaire was at a loss for words, wondering just how ridiculous the idea was, when his gaze shifted towards the stairs.

"Yes," Grantaire coaxed him. "Let's go downstairs."

After another awkward pause, he approached the man, gently taking him by the shoulders. The creature followed along as Grantaire let him to the top of the stairs, his footsteps very hesitant and methodical. He had to watch Grantaire descend the top two steps before he had the courage to try them on his own.

"There you go, it's just stairs," Grantaire assured him, trying to hide his concerns. This would take much patience.

As he led him into the kitchen, Grantaire pulled out a chair and offered for him to sit down. The man took to the chair with both feet, crouching on it awkwardly. Grantaire said nothing, but as the man watched him sit adjacent to him, he slowly released his feet, one at a time, to lie flat on the floor. He leaned over the plate of freshly cooked food: scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and smelled it doubtfully.

"Go on, eat," said Grantaire, and somehow the man understood enough to carefully pick up a piece of bacon with both hands and take a bite out of it.

A smile crossed Grantaire's face. "There you go."

He picked up his own knife and fork, and as he used it to cut into the thick slice of bacon, the other man set down his piece and attempted to do the same.

"Oh, no, no," said Grantaire, looking over to see the man struggle to hold a fork. "It's perfectly alright to eat with your hands."

The man just stared back at him. "Really," Grantaire assured him, and then followed through by picking up the slice and tearing a piece off with his teeth. The creature watched him thoughtfully, and then returned to his previous method, hungrily digging into the meal with both hands. Grantaire couldn't help but laugh. "I hope you weren't too hungry."

Taking a sip of tea, he studied the man. He bore a vague resemblance to the robber, although his demeanor was much more subdued. "Do you remember anything at all from...from before?" Grantaire asked. The man didn't look up. Frowning, Grantaire added, "Can you understand me at all?"

This caught the man's attention at least, as he stopped to stare back at Grantaire for a few seconds before returning to eat.

Grantaire sighed. "Well, you've said one word, at least, so perhaps if I keep talking to you, you'll pick up more."

The artist picked up his tea again, staring wistfully out the window in the silent moment. The sunshine was fading as clouds began to hang in the sky once more.

"Where..."

Grantaire was alerted at the man's voice, listening intently as he laboured to produce a sentence.

"Where you...where you found me?"

Grantaire blinked. Although his words were off, his pronunciation was perfect for an upper class Londoner. "Where did I find you?" Grantaire recast.

The man gave a single, determined nod.

"We met on the road late at night outside the city." Grantaire swallowed uncomfortably. "It were rather strange circumstances."

"Were we...we were friends?"

Grantaire took a deep breath internally, trying to figure out how best to phrase it. "No. We barely knew each other before you...before you died."

The man nodded thoughtfully. Despite the fact that he seemed to know nothing about his past, the fact of his being dead didn't bother him at all.

"So you remember nothing? Nothing at all?"

The man stared back at him silently. With one hand, he traced the loop of his ear in thought. As he did so, the sleeve of the smock slid down his arm to reveal his makeshift bandages, still caked in dried blood. "No," he concluded. "I know...you."

"You know me?" Grantaire repeated, leaning in. He wasn't sure if he should be horrified or intrigued.

"You made me...alive."

"Alive," Grantaire echoed, his mouth ajar, "You're saying I brought you back to life?"

The man's face was unreadable, although his eyes shimmered. "Grantaire," he said softly.

Something about the way he said it tugged at Grantaire's heart, making him want to give his full attention. "Yes?"

The man's brow furrowed, his expression delayed in response. "What you are going to do with me?"

"I don't know," said Grantaire. "I don't imagine you had much in the way of family. And if you did, I would have no means to contact them. Perhaps the only solution would be to take you to a hospital."

The creature's eyes widened as he shrank back into his chair. That option didn't seem to comfort him at all.

"No," Grantaire concluded. "You're right, I don't think they would be able to treat whatever your...condition is."

_His condition. His condition is that I brought him to life._

"Sir," Grantaire breathed, astonished by his revelation. "I brought you to life, and now I believe that I, more than anyone else, am responsible for you."

The man's confusion was hardly arrested. "Responsible," he repeated, in the same way Grantaire had spoken it.

"Yes," said Grantaire. "I should care for you. At least until you're on your feet again."

The man frowned. He looked a mess, from his unruly hair to the dirt on his sorry excuses for shoes, toes peeking out through holes in the leather.

"I'll draw you a bath," Grantaire concluded.

***

When Grantaire returned to the washroom with a stack of clean clothes, his guest was still standing awkwardly, watching the tap run as it filled the tub. He held out a his fingers, jerking them back instantly upon touching the water.

Grantaire leaned past him to test the temperature of the water. "It's a bit hot, I think."

The man didn't answer, just stared back at him. Grantaire hit the cold water valve to cool the bath.

"That's that," said Grantaire, dusting his hands off. He pulled a chair forward. "Perhaps you'd like to sit? I'll help you get your shoes off."

The man sat down reluctantly, but made no effort to stop Grantaire, as he began to extract the man's feet.

"Christ." Grantaire grimaced at the sight: dirt, dried blood, toenails that were well overgrown. "Sir, I believe we should take care of these before anything else." He stood up, the man's eyes trained on him as he retrieved a smaller washbasin and filled it with water. Grantaire knelt down to roll up the man's trousers, gently lifting his legs into the basin before beginning to scrub them with care.

It took some time, but he finally removed the last of the dirt, toenails trimmed neatly with scissors, he stood up and shook his hands dry.

"I'll leave you to it, then," he told the man. "I'm sure you're sore for privacy by now--"

As he tried to step away, he felt a cold hand grasp his elbow. He turned to the man, who was staring up at him quietly, his eyes trained on Grantaire very intently.

"What," breathed Grantaire incredulously. "Y-you want me to stay?"

Part of him knew it was a terrible, dangerous idea. But the way those strange, inhuman irises looked up at him, almost pleading, he couldn't bring himself to decline.

Grantaire helped him out of his clothes and into the bath. "Wait," he said, gently taking one of the man's arms before it was submerged. "We ought to cut these bandages off. I'm sure they're of no use to you now."

The man gave a single, determined nod, and Grantaire retrieved the scissors to free him of the tatters.

As the man lowered his arms into the water, a cloud of red and brown flecks swirled off of his skin. When he raised his hands again, the water running off his elbows made the stitches more obvious against his pale skin. He ran his fingers along them, his brow furrowed. "How I got these?"

Grantaire swallowed. "Erm...that's a story for another day. Suffice to say you were in an altercation."

The man nodded. His fingers traced to another mark on his shoulder; a deeper, older scar. He had a few others scattered about his body. "And this?"

"I don't know," Grantaire answered, kneeling beside the tub to get a better look. "I don't know what sort of harsh life you lived before. But don't worry," he said, trying to appease the man's disquieted expression, "you needn't live like that anymore. My parents have been supporting me for some time; they have such means that I'm sure they won't notice if I let you stay here, bring you under the wing of their good graces."

His guest didn't answer, just stared blankly at the end of the tub.

"Here," said Grantaire, handing him a bar of soap. Reluctantly, the man took it and began to use it to lather himself.

Grantaire sighed quietly in relief. He sat down in the chair, lost in his own thoughts. What the devil was he doing? Letting this stranger take his place of residence? Yet somehow, Grantaire felt transfixed by him. Though perhaps a bit rough around the edges, he seemed to possess some intelligence, this creature, whatever he was. Who knew what he could become?

But as Grantaire glanced over to the dark-haired man in the tub, the image jumped out at him, one of the man he had fought the night before.

"Sir..." he began, his voice trailing with uncertainty.

The man turned his head, water dripping down his neck as he stared back at Grantaire with interest.

"I think we should do something about your appearance," Grantaire explained. "If it's true that you don't remember your old life, perhaps it would do well to make you less recogniseable. As far as I can tell, it's likely you ran with a rough crowd, and you wouldn't want to be further associated with them."

The man looked incredibly calm. "You want that I should...change my appearance?"

"I think so, yes," Grantaire concluded.

He gave a nod. His voice was light as a feather when he spoke. "Then I should change my appearance."

***

"It's a long story as to how I have these products in the first place," said Grantaire. Standing behind the man as he sat in the studio, Grantaire ran his hands through the man's hair, the table beside them prepped with bleaches and dyes. "It was for a portrait; this man I was to paint wanted the fur pelt on his shoulder to look like that of a lion's. I had to perform several small miracles like that, which is part of why I don't take commissions anymore. People are always so particular about how they should look."

"Where...you...learned?"

"Where did I learn how to paint?" Grantaire repeated. "I was in school for a bit, but dropped out pretty quickly. For the most part, I'm self taught."

He took a paintbrush and began to apply a thick paste to the man's curls.

"I'm thinking of calling you Enjolras," he said as he worked. "From the French word for angel. And you've sort of risen from the dead, in a way."

The man kept silent, his eyes closed. He looked content, as though he were to drift to sleep.

"What do you think?" Grantaire implored.

"Enjolras," the man experimented with his own tongue. He opened his eyes to look up at Grantaire. "I could not imagine something so beautiful. Thank you."

For a moment, Grantaire was rendered immobile by the wholly unexpected complement. "Of course," he replied, continuing with his task.

When they were finished, Grantaire trimmed the unruly mass of hair, now lightened to a dirty blond. Cutting the sides short, he left loose some curls on top, enough for one or two to hang onto his forehead. Standing in the middle of the room, dressed in a clean white shirt and slacks held up by suspenders, Enjolras was transformed, completely unable to be mistaken for the bandit he had once been.

"What do you think?" Enjolras asked, watching as Grantaire circled around him in careful evaluation.

The artist was pleased with his work, although something about the man seemed too uncanny. Perhaps he blinked too slowly, methodically, the way he walked too uneven and laboured. His ghastly complexion was pale enough to remind Grantaire that he was dead, yet not so much that he couldn't pass for alive to the untrained eye.

"You're beautiful," Grantaire concluded rather breathlessly, although another word crossed his mind. _Terrifying_.

***

For the next few days, Enjolras stayed in Grantaire's studio, conversing with him, watching him paint. His language improved quickly, and he was beginning to read. At night, he slept on a sofa Grantaire kept for portraits and entertaining, although he liked to wander; some mornings Grantaire would find him curled up on the floor among his unfinished canvases. True to his word, Grantaire looked after him, keeping him clothed and fed.

It was a peaceful evening in the studio as Enjolras sat at the table, quietly reading by candlelight. Despite being provided with other options, he preferred to wear one of Grantaire's smocks in place of a shirt. Grantaire entered to bring him dinner, and after setting the plate before him, the artist leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Enjolras' head.

"Why do you touch me like that?" Enjolras asked, eyes following Grantaire as he took a seat next to him.

"Because I want to, I suppose," replied Grantaire. "Why, would you wish me to stop?"

"If that is what you want, I would not wish you to stop."

Grantaire leaned towards him, frowning. "You shouldn't do anything for my sake. I want nothing to cause you pain."

"A kiss would not cause me pain," remarked Enjolras. He glanced away to the plate of fish and potatoes. "Thank you for bringing dinner."

"It's no trouble," replied Grantaire, beginning to eat his own portion with a knife and fork. "Mmm!" He swallowed, setting down the utensils. "I forgot, I had some wine saved for the special occasion, if you'd like some. It's been exactly a week since you came here."

Enjolras looked thoughtful. "I'll try some, then. Oh!"

In the moment he had neglected his meal, a rat had already climbed the table to partake in it.

"That's rather unfortunate," Grantaire lamented. "Perhaps I can open a window and shoo it onto the roof, or--"

He stopped, watching as Enjolras took the creature in his hands, petting it with his thumb. The thing seemed rather content in his clutches.

"Looks like you've made a friend," Grantaire mused with a smile. "I'll get the wine, then."

Just as he made it to the top of the stairs, Enjolras called out to him in a worrisome tone.

"Grantaire?"

He rushed back to Enjolras at once. "What is it?"

"Something's wrong," said the man. "He's not moving."

Grantaire knelt down to see him uncurl his fingers, revealing the dead creature.

"You must be more gentle," Grantaire explained, doing his best to hide his shock.

"Can you fix it?" asked Enjolras. "Fix him like you fixed me."

"You know that wouldn't be the same," said Grantaire sadly. "Besides, you're the only time I've gotten it to work, and we would have to wait for another lightning storm. He'll be full of maggots by then."

Enjolras frowned in a sullen expression as Grantaire took the small creature from him.

"I'll take him outside," said Grantaire, laying a hand on his shoulder, but Enjolras buried his face in his own hands.

"I've killed him!" he wailed. "I'm a monster!"

"No," Grantaire cooed in a reassuring manner. "You didn't know any better."

Standing up, he leaned down to give Enjolras another kiss on the top of his head. Fortunately, this seemed to calm him. But as Grantaire descended the stairs, he felt hardly at ease. The rat's tiny corpse lay limp in his hands.

***

It was a crisp autumn day as Grantaire stepped outside, a reluctant Enjolras following behind him. He squinted in the light, face pale even under the rouge Grantaire had applied to make him more life-like. 

"You'll be fine," Grantaire assured him, grasping the elbow of Enjolras' coat. "Like I said earlier, just stay close to me."

"I don't understand why I need new clothes if I already have ones that fit perfectly well," Enjolras lightly protested as they began to travel down the cobblestone street. 

Grantaire breathed a smile. "It's perfectly fine for you to wear one of my smocks at home, but out in the real world, people are expected to dress proper."

"If you say so," replied Enjolras, sounding not entirely convinced. "I do hope we can return soon, though. The last chapter I was reading ended on a cliff hanger."

"We'll return soon enough," said Grantaire. He frowned. "I thought you were re-reading Livy."

"I was," Enjolras replied. "I have to know if the old Roman Republic lasts, or if Julius Caesar will take over."

Grantaire lifted an eyebrow. "I won't spoil it for you then."

It took the smallest sideways glance between them before they broke into a hushed laughter. Grantaire's breath was visible in the cold air, but for Enjolras, there was no such effect. 

"Come on," said Grantaire, grabbing Enjolras' elbow and trying to hide the blush on his face. "The tailor's is this way."

Once inside the shop, Grantaire set to work, waving away the shop assistant so he could start pulling garments off the shelves and throwing them onto an ever-growing pile in Enjolras' arms.

"There," he said, placing another shirt on top. "That should be enough to start. They have some dressing rooms in the back."

And with that, he ushered Enjolras into one of them, and stood outside, waiting patiently. It was then that he heard a familiar voice in the other room having a discussion with the tired assistant.

"You're sure this is all you have? I was looking for something with more pleats."

"Sir, we carry what is modern and fashionable, as sought by our clientele. What you're asking for is medieval."

Grantaire turned his head to see the friendly face had already recognised him.

"Grantaire!"

Jehan nearly bounded in skips as they traveled across the room to greet him. "As I live and breathe, these past few months. How good to see you!"

"And you as well, Jehan," Grantaire replied, greeting him with a warm smile and a firm grasp to the shoulder. "Has it really been that long?"

"I believe so," said the poet, looking wistful. "We haven't seen you at the Musain in so long, we were starting to wonder if you'd disappeared."

"I'm sorry to worry you," said Grantaire, scratching at the back of his neck. "I suppose I've been absorbed in other matters."

"Working on a new project, then?" Jehan asked, their eyes glistening. "What form does your paint take these days?"

Grantaire was thoughtful, trying to remember which painting he had completed most recently. "Well, I--"

"Grantaire, do you know how these buttons work? I can't seem to get them to line up."

The artist froze upon seeing Enjolras come out of the dressing room, his coat in a comically awkward position from his attempt to fasten the double-breasted front.

"Enjolras," Grantaire said, immediately alerting his attention to the other. "This is my good friend Jehan. Jehan, allow me to introduce...Enjolras."

"Nice to meet you," said Jehan with a cordial smile. They held out their hand, and Enjolras reluctantly shook it, to much success. Jehan was beaming.

"He's an old friend of mine who's visiting from the countryside," Grantaire explained. "We thought to get him fitted for a suit while he's in town."

"Ah, of course," said Jehan, as though this made perfect sense. "You're coming to Courfeyrac's, then?"

"No," Grantaire said with interest. "What's at Courfeyrac's?"

"He's having a little soiree next week. Oh, I hope you can come," they added, smiling at Enjolras. "If you're still in town."

"What do you think?" Grantaire asked gently, turning to Enjolras. "Would you like to go?"

Enjolras thought for a moment. "Yes," he concluded with a nod.

"Splendid," Jehan uttered in a melodic tone. "Now, could I offer my assistance in finding something to wear?"

Grantaire lifted a doubtful eyebrow at that. Jehan's own turquoise blue coat looked almost garish against his red hair, a voluminous ruffle peeking out from their collar.

"That's kind of you," Enjolras remarked, having missed Grantaire's reaction. "What would you suggest?"

"Hmm," Jehan mused, stepping back to give him a good look. "You're more of a winter skin tone." They leaned in closer, making Enjolras stiffen a little, feeling suddenly self-conscious. "Very much a winter."

They left the room and returned with a bright red wool coat with yellow trim, the shop assistant following with his spectacles and measuring tape. "I believe this would be a fine option, warm up your complexion a bit."

Grantaire made a grimace, Enjolras watching him silently. Jehan held the garment up to Enjolras' neck, but Grantaire still looked unconvinced.

"Could you maybe tone it down a bit?" he suggested.

"You're right," said Jehan, studying the coat as he held it out. "The trim is a bit much. Could we remove the trim?" he asked, turning to the tailor.

"Perhaps I have something else to suit the gentleman," the man replied, and he returned with another coat entirely, this time in a deep, burgundy red.

Grantaire nodded in approval. "What do you think?" he asked Enjolras, but Enjolras just stared back at him, waiting patiently for his response. "Here," said Grantaire, and he began to undo the buttons on Enjolras' coat. Where the fabric had been scrutched and stretched, the buttons fitting to the wrong holes, Grantaire unfastened them with ease, helping him out of the sleeves in a smooth motion. The tailor handed him the coat, and he slid it onto Enjolras' tall, slender frame, fastened it up.

He led Enjolras to a mirror, and the man took in his reflection.

Grantaire placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's good, I think."

Enjolras nodded.

"It's perfect!" interrupted Jehan, appearing between them with an elbow on the shoulder of either man. "You're sure to turn heads at the ball next week."

Grantaire breathed a warm smile. "I think so, too."

A few minutes later, Jehan and Grantaire waited for Enjolras to have his measurements taken so the tailor could make adjustments to the coat, as well as fit him for a shirt and trousers.

"Have you another appointment after this?" Jehan asked. "Don't tell me you have to rush off after I haven't seen my friend in so long."

"I suppose we could spare an hour," Grantaire conceded. He glanced over at Enjolras, who jerked away as the tailor attempted to measure his shoulder inseam. Enjolras' eyes caught Grantaire's, and under his quiet assurance, he stood still for the tailor to do his work.

"Wonderful," said Jehan, "there's a tea room around the corner that I rarely get to visit." He smiled. "Oh, I'm so glad I ran into you two. I can't wait to tell the others, soon they'll all be coming to your door with their greetings, I'm sure."

Grantaire breathed a frown. "Perhaps you can keep our little rendezvous secret for the time being. Enjolras is...he's quite shy, you see. I don't want to overwhelm him; I'm sure you understand."

Jehan raised their eyebrows, shifting in their chair in thought. "Yes, of course. But for now I'm glad to have your company."

***

"So how long have you been acquaintances?" Jehan asked as they sat for tea. The tea shop was lively on the drizzling afternoon, several patrons huddled around their tables as they chatted. 

Enjolras looked up from his cup, where he had been stirring in a lump of sugar.

"Since childhood," Grantaire answered, pouring another for himself. "We were fast friends from an early age. We grew up together, you see." He hoped Jehan didn't notice that the teapot trembled slightly in his anxious hands.

"That makes so much sense," Jehan said, a smile blooming on their face. "You're two peas in a pod. To be honest, I'm surprised to see someone get along with Grantaire so well." They leaned closer to Enjolras to make the joking comment.

To Grantaire's surprise, Enjolras let out an easy laughter. "He can certainly be temperamental at times."

Jehan laughed at that; meanwhile, the blood drained from Grantaire's face.

"Indeed," said Jehan. They blinked, brow furrowed as their gaze caught on Enjolras' appearance. "Your eyes, I don't believe I've seen any that hue before," he remarked.

"Ah, yes," the artist interjected. "Enjolras has a rather unique heritage, you see. His father hails from the Pyrenees, and his mother..." his mind hurried to come up with a similarly obsure origin, "...is Finnish."

"How fascinating," said Jehan, utterly captivated. "I was just reading a bit of Finnish folklore the other day. The Kalevala?"

Enjolras blinked, entirely unsure how to respond.

"Perhaps not, the English translation was only recently published," Jehan explained with a forgiving air. "Although the stories must be familiar, I'm sure you've already heard them many times as you were growing up."

"Yes, I'm sure," said Enjolras. He calmly sipped from his tea.

"The verses I were just reading the other day tell the story of Ilmarinen," Jehan continued, "the blacksmith, if I'm pronouncing that correctly. A rather interesting concept, after the loss of his wife, he attempts to create a new bride of gold and silver, but finds her cold. 'Cold the lips of the golden maiden, silver breathes the breath of sorrow.'"

"Yes," said Enjolras. "I think remember that one."

"What a peculiar tale," Grantaire said, more in disagreement. "I don't know what else he possibly thought could happen."

"Ilmarinen was a great craftsman, capable of forging anything. It just reminded me of you, R," Jehan explained. "Your paintings are so realistic, I wonder if one were to come to life. Oh, how the stories inspire me, how I wish I could travel back in time to see those shining knights and fair maidens."

Grantaire laughed. "Jehan is the Don Quixote of the group," he told Enjolras. "His head is far in the clouds, but we enjoy his good spirits."

"I know you mean that in the kindest way possible," Jehan said, taking a sip from their cup. "Do you read poetry, Enjolras?"

Enjolras frowned. "What's that?"

Jehan nearly dropped their cup. Grantaire's eyes widened, and he found himself gripping the edge of his own chair.

"You know poetry, like Homer," Grantaire encouraged him.

"Ah, yes," said Enjolras, hardly out of step. "I've read some of the Odyssey, but forgive me for taking respite from some of its long-winded parts."

"You should read some modern poets, such as Shelley and Keats," Jehan suggested, leaning forward as though they had much more to say on the subject than they could possibly let on. "The way they craft words is absolutely sublime, far more than just telling a story."

"Hmm," Enjolras pondered. "I'll have to look into it."

"I have many tomes you can borrow," Jehan offered with a friendly smile. They gave a laugh. "To think, someone who doesn't know what poetry is. A terrible thought."

Grantaire sighed with a slight relief, casting glances at Enjolras as the man was temporarily lost in thought, absentmindedly stirring his tea.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Livy refers to Ab Urbe Condita, a history of the founding of Rome, written by Livy, who was a historian during Augustus' time. Jehan mentions Percy Bysshe Shelley (by coincidence Mary Shelley's husband) and John Keats, the English Romantic poets. 
> 
> This fic was supposed to be short but I've been really enjoying writing it. Hope y'all don't mind if I have a few more updates coming. I'll try to reach the conclusion before Halloween ;)


	3. Chapter 3

Rain pounded on the window outside of Grantaire's bedroom late one night as he lie in bed. Lightning flashed, and he jumped awake, the crack of thunder following soon after. He sat up and lit a candle, jumping a second time at the sight of a tall figure standing in his doorway.

"Enjolras, you spooked me," he said, finding his breath again.

The man stood there listlessly, his eyes wide, wild, in terror. Wordlessly, he quickly made his way towards Grantaire and embraced him.

"It's alright," said Grantaire, melting as he found himself sitting in bed, cradling Enjolras, who had climbed to sit on top of him. "Did the lightning scare you?"

Enjolras didn't answer.

"There's nothing to be afraid of," Grantaire said gently. He ran his fingers through the hair on the back of Enjolras' head. "I'm here."

He felt Enjolras nod into his shoulder. For awhile, they stayed like that, until Grantaire realised the other man wasn't going anywhere any time soon. But he didn't mind, he simply blew out the candle and let Enjolras under the covers, so they could lie down to sleep in his tiny bed. Enjolras buried his head into Grantaire's chest, never mind that in order to do so, he had to shift down so that one of his legs hung off the end of the bed. Thunder sounded outside, and in response, Enjolras grasped at Grantaire's nightshirt, balling it up in a fist.

"Aren't you afraid of the lightning?"

"What?" Grantaire wondered if he had really heard his voice.

"I saw it hurt you. When you touched the rat's heart."

"When I...?" Grantaire's voice trailed off in thought. The memory surfaced of the night he brought Enjolras back to life, when he had been drunk experimenting on a dead rat. When lightning had struck, it threw him back. "But that was before...before you..."

"Yes."

Enjolras answered as though it made sense, but Grantaire was hopelessly confused. "You saw that? What else did you see?"

"Just what happened after I died." He felt the vibrations of Enjolras' voice against his chest.

Grantaire was silent for a moment, then replied in a quiet voice, "I didn't know that."

"Oh." He sounded less sure. Grantaire felt him let go of his shirt. "I'm sorry. I thought you knew."

Grantaire lay silent in thought. He felt Enjolras wrap an arm around his waist in the pitch darkness. His body was cold, but Grantaire found it oddly comforting. Solid and smooth, like hugging a statue. Where he normally fidgeted and turned in his sleep, Grantaire felt himself lie still in the man's arms. As the the rain continued to pour and thunder sounded outside, Enjolras was his anchor in the storm.

"Tell me what you saw," Grantaire whispered.

"The first thing I remember is dying. My soul left my body, and I remember you were there. You held me, kept me warm. I watched you after that, saw you painting. When you brought the lightning to my heart, my soul suddenly fused back to my body. I was so shocked, I couldn't move."

Grantaire's eyes grew wide at the story. He imagined Enjolras as a ghost, lingering around the studio as his body lie dead. "You were...you were a ghost?"

"You could say that, yes."

Grantaire pensively frowned. "Did you see other ghosts?"

"Oh, yes. The building is old; there are a great deal of souls here. But I don't see them anymore, not since you brought me back."

The artist was speechless. Enjolras must have noticed because he stirred slightly.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

"No, no..." Grantaire felt his hair in the dark, placed a hand on the side of Enjolras' face. "Thank you for sharing that with me."

He felt the man nod sleepily into his chest. Grantaire stayed awake some time longer before drifting into a deep sleep.

***

Grantaire awoke from one of the most content, satisfying rests he had had in ages. A soft gray light illuminated the room, he smiled as he felt blond curls tickle his chin. He always loved the smell after it rained.

Enjolras stirred, and as he slowly pulled away, their eyes met.

"Good morning," said Grantaire sleepily, but Enjolras didn't answer, just stared back at him, a curious look on his face. He brought his face in closer, hesitating once before leaning to kiss Grantaire on the lips.

"Enjolras!" Grantaire couldn't help but giggle. The man stopped--was there a smile forming on his lips?--but Grantaire touched his shoulder, brushing over it with his thumb. "Okay, one more."

Enjolras leaned in and they kissed a second time. But twice wasn't enough, and he must have seen Grantaire's eyes beseech him, so they kissed a third, and a fourth time. They were simple, chaste kisses, hardly anything serious. Enjolras was definitely grinning now, and Grantaire laughed as he leaned in once more. They stayed together longer this time, and it might have worried Grantaire, but they were interrupted by the sound of an alarm ringing by the bed.

Grantaire rolled over in annoyance at the alarm clock, quickly shutting the thing off. He turned back to Enjolras, sighing in disappointment. "I wish I could stay here with you, but my parents are in town, and I'm supposed to meet them for breakfast."

"I could come with you," said Enjolras, and as Grantaire began to sit up, he felt Enjolras' hand on the side of his ribs.

He slowly glanced down, brushing the hand away. "No," he said. "It's better if I go alone."

Enjolras' gaze did not leave him. He frowned. "You're ashamed of me."

"No! No," Grantaire assured him, "I could never be ashamed of you."

"You are," Enjolras countered. "You don't want me to meet your parents, and you didn't want me to meet your friend. Jehan."

"No," Grantaire's voice cooed. "I was just...I wasn't sure what to expect. But it went well. And I'll take you to Courfeyrac's next week; you can meet the rest of my friends." He placed a comforting hand on Enjolras' arm.

Enjolras seemed unconvinced. "Why can't I meet your parents, then?"

Grantaire's expression turned more serious. He bit his lip, and then swallowed uncomfortably. "I don't want to scare them."

Enjolras blinked, and then glanced down in thought. Finally he nodded.

Grantaire stood up and pressed another kiss into Enjolras' hair. "I'll see you when I return," he said, and with that, he left the other man there in his bed.

***

"There he is, the man of the hour," his father announced as soon as Grantaire entered the dining room

The Baron and Baroness stood, making their way through the busy, although upscale restaurant to make their son's acquaintance. Almost immediately, the lady stepped forward to fiddle with his appearance.

"Horace, you've barely combed your hair," she said, straightening his collar, much to his displeasure. "And you're out of breath; did you run all the way here?"

"Mother, I believe that's quite enough," he snapped, but quickly sighed regretfully at her dismay. "Forgive me, I lost my way, and had to hurry so as to not keep you waiting."

The Baron frowned. "My dear boy, I was certain no one knew the streets of London better than you. Well, it's no matter. We have someone we'd like you to meet."

With a firm hand on Grantaire's shoulder, he led him to the table, where a young woman rose from her seat.

_No_, he thought with dread. _Not again_.

"May I introduce to you Miss Cosette Fauchelevent," said his father, and the well-dressed young woman held out her hand with a demure smile. Golden curls framed her face, and rosy cheeks flushed against her porcelain skin. Perhaps to someone she could be considered very pretty.

Grantaire took her hand, bowing to kiss her wrist as he had been trained. "Charmed," he said tersely, barely making eye contact. He moved to offer her chair, and after she sat down, pushed her towards the table in a gentleman's fashion.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you," she said once he had sat down beside her. "Your parents have told me a great deal already."

"I'm sure they have," Grantaire answered, eyes glancing about the table for his glass of water. Distracted, his hand missed, and it nearly would have been knocked over had Cosette not thought to grab it with her sharp reflexes. "Thanks," he said, eyes flitting to hers quite briefly. Such was the start to a long and awkward meal.

"Cosette's father is a very well to do gentleman," the Baron explained, as they were part way into the first course. "He's the mayor of a decent town out in Norfolk. Is that where you grew up?"

_He said he watched me after he died. What does that mean? He saw me moping around over his corpse?_

Cosette set her fork down to address the Baron. "Yes, but I spent much of my childhood in France, at our summerhome in Provence."

_He kissed me, thought Grantaire. Just a simple gesture between friends, but it had to be more than that. What did he do to make my heart feel so light?_

"Horace, what's wrong with you today?" his father remarked so abruptly, his mother nearly dropped her glass. "You've hardly touched your plate at all, and you look as though you've seen a ghost."

_I have_, he thought to himself.

"N-nothing," Grantaire stammered.

"Have you been eating well?" his mother weighed in. "You're looking so thin, I wonder if the allowance we send you is enough."

"I should remind you," his father said, turning to him, "we agreed to help you financially until you developed a clientele and started making profits; otherwise, I'm beginning to think of this artistry business as a childish dream of yours."

That brought Grantaire back into focus. "You must understand, it's been difficult since the passing of Lemarque," he explained, although, to be honest, he hadn't been making any effort to sell his paintings as of late.

"Perhaps I could help," chimed in Cosette, much to everyone's surprise. "My father has several friends who are interested in art. If you showed me some of your work, I might be able to find a buyer."

"What an excellent idea," the Baron said, his expression lightened considerably. "Could you put us in touch with them?" he asked her.

"Or rather," his wife gently intervened, placing a hand on his wrist, "wouldn't it be lovely for her to see the works herself? Horace, why don't you invite her over, I'm sure you'll get along splendidly."

Grantaire did his best to hide his utter horror at the idea.

Cosette turned to him with a friendly interest. "I would be delighted."

"I'm not so sure," Grantaire hesitated. "It's rather a mess at the moment, I'm sure a lady of your stature would find it unpalatable."

"Nonsense," she remarked. "That's what makes it interesting, seeing the artist at work."

"Well, you would do well to clean it up a bit," his mother prodded him, "if you are to have a guest over."

"I really don't think it's a good idea," he protested, and feeling so on edge, he decided to stand at once. "I'm sorry to cut this short, but I have some other matters I should attend to. It was nice meeting you, Miss Fauchelevent--"

"Now hold on, my boy," his father rose to disagree. "We've been so fortunate as to have the company of the lovely Cosette, a very well-bred--"

"Well-bred?" Grantaire cut in, "You're speaking as though she were a dog. I don't know what you've told her, but there's absolutely no reason she should be interested in me."

Cosette opened her mouth, but quickly chose to remain quiet, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

"She should have quite an interest!" the Baron countered, other patrons of the restaurant beginning to notice as he raised his voice. "What has gotten into you?"

"Good day, father, mother," Grantaire said curtly before quickly sweeping out of the room.

***

As he entered his flat, Grantaire hastily began taking off his good coat, tired of the wretched thing that felt stiff on his arms.

"Grantaire? Is that you?" a voice called from upstairs. He ceased his actions and immediately ascended to the studio, still wearing his coat by one sleeve.

"Hello," he said, and the sight of Enjolras calmed him immediately: barefoot, wearing his smock, a half eaten apple in one hand. Grantaire thought to approach him, and decidedly leaned in for a kiss.

"Is this how we should greet each other now?" Enjolras remarked, breathing a warm smile.

"If it should please you," Grantaire answered, feeling his face flush, his eyes closing shyly with a grin. He finally freed himself of his coat and flung it on a chair. "I missed you at breakfast. It was a disaster."

"Oh?" asked Enjolras, following him as he collapsed on the sofa. "What happened?"

"I'd rather not talk about it," Grantaire answered, wiping his brow with one hand. "Just know that you didn't miss much."

"Alright, then," Enjolras said with a laugh. He took another bite of his apple and began to walk about the room, idly studying some of the paintings.

"Who is she?"

"What?" Grantaire gasped, feeling as though he had a fever. He looked up to see Enjolras gesturing at the painting of the virgin and child. "Oh," he said, relieved. "That's my good friend, Eponine. She's been travelling for the past year."

"I see," said Enjolras, folding his arms as he studied the painting. "She's pretty."

"A good thing to say about one's friends," mused Grantaire, closing his eyes to rest.

"And this? Is this you?"

Grantaire peeked one eye open. Enjolras stood before his unfinished painting of David, holding the head of Goliath. David still looked rough, needing some work, but Goliath's head was quite clear in its expression. A hand held up the dark brown mess of curls, the beastly face staring vacantly, tongue hanging loose from his mouth, dark red dripping from underneath the severed neck. A self portrait.

"I would say you're quite harsh on yourself," Enjolras remarked. "If only you could see the way you laugh when you're drunk."

Grantaire closed his eyes, breathing deeply. The compliment hit him too late. "What?"

Both of them turned as a knock sounded on the front door downstairs.

"Who could that be?" Enjolras wondered aloud, and Grantaire really, really hoped his family hadn't followed him home.

"I'll go see," he said in a resigned tone, pulling himself to his feet and hurrying downstairs. He braced himself before opening the door, and was pleasantly surprised. "Jehan! What brings you to the neighborhood?"

The poet juggled several books in their arms. "I thought your friend could use some light reading," (the word "light" ellicited a raised eyebrow on Grantaire's part) "so I decided to stop by. If he's still in?"

Grantaire lingered in the doorway, silently flooded with relief. "Of course, he's just upstairs."

He led Jehan up to the studio, catching one of the books as Jehan attempted to climb the stairs with no downward peripheral vision.

"Thanks," said Jehan. Their eyes widened as he entered the room. "Oh! Grantaire, it's been so long since I've seen your studio, how grand! Oh, hello!" he brightly greeted Enjolras upon seeing him.

Before Enjolras could say a word, Jehan was already pushing the books toward him. "I've been thinking about your situation, and I knew I couldn't live with myself if I didn't at least lend you the basics. So here are a few collections: Shelley, Keats, and Lord Byron."

Enjolras stumbled as Jehan handed him the tomes.

"I thought to bring Wordsworth and Coleridge as well, but I need them for an essay I'm currently writing. Those ones you can return to me whenever you can. And I'm still working on my copy of the Kalevala, so I went back to the shop and got you your own; consider it a gift."

Enjolras took the newly printed book with care. "Thank you," he said in complete surprise.

"It's my pleasure," Jehan beamed. "I hope we can compare notes after you've read it, I can't wait to hear the take on it by a true Finn."

As Enjolras nodded, steadying the stack of books in his hands, Jehan's face fell.

"Enjolras, are you alright? You look poorly," he said, having finally noticed the man's appearance.

Grantaire thought back to the last time they had seen Jehan, how he had to apply some make-up to Enjolras' face so he wouldn't look so...corpse-like. Luckily, Enjolras also seemed to remember.

"I'm fine, thanks for asking," he responded politely, setting the books down. "I didn't get much sleep last night; the thunderstorm kept me up."

"Really," said Jehan with their usual air of fascination. "We're opposites, you and I. The sound of cats and dogs on the roof, and I sleep like a babe."

"Cats and dogs?" asked Enjolras.

"He means like heavy rain," Grantaire explained.

"Speaking of roofs, what's this?" asked Jehan, moving beneath the skylight. "Are you trying to temp the Gods from their thrones on Mount Olympus?"

"Something along those lines," said Grantaire, approaching the table where the equipment remained untouched. "Actually, this is from an experiment of Combeferre's; he requested to use the studio to set it up."

"And?" wondered Jehan. "What does it do?"

Grantaire's eyes flitted to Enjolras, who watched silently from afar. "It requires a thunderstorm, actually. You see, the lightning travels down this rod, and if you hold these prongs out..." he glanced down carefully, refraining from glancing at Enjolras once more, "it makes the compass turn."

"Is that so?" mused Jehan. For a minute, he studied the apparatus. "I can't imagine what, if any use that might have."

"No idea," Grantaire answered tersely. "Ask Combeferre."

***

It was another chilly afternoon as Grantaire sat in the studio, making edits to his painting of David and Goliath. A fire burned in the fireplace in the corner, and Enjolras sat on the sofa, reading one of the books Jehan had left.

"'_Can I forget---canst thou forget, when playing with thy golden hair, how quick thy fluttering heart did move?_'" Enjolras read aloud. "Did you write this?"

"I?" Grantaire looked up from his painting. He breathed a laugh. "No."

Enjolras smiled, reclining back on the sofa. "Are you sure? I could have sworn you wrote this for me."

"Impossible."

"'_When thus reclining on my breast, those eyes threw back a glance so sweet, as half reproached yet raised desire, and still we near and nearer pressed, and still our glowing lips would meet, as if in kisses to expire._'"

Grantaire breathed a smile, and he could tell that Enjolras was well entertained. "Perhaps in a past life." He ducked his head closer, painting some finer strokes. David's torso had lenthened, making him taller, and a few touches of gold color caught the light in his hair.

"These are really quite flowery," Enjolras remarked, rubbing his chin. "I can see why Jehan likes them."

A knock sounded on the door at the bottom of the stairs, and Grantaire hardly looked up.

"Are you going to answer that?" asked Enjolras, hearing them knock a second time.

"They can wait--"

"Hello?"

Grantaire's eyes widened at the woman's voice. "No, no, it can't be," he muttered. He stood up, Enjolras' eyes tracing his movements. "I'll go and sort this."

"Cosette," he greeted hesitantly upon answering the door, where she stood in her black winter frock and bonnet.

"Good afternoon, Horace," she said with a pleasant smile. "May I come in?"

"Now really isn't a good time," he replied as she stepped in and began to take off her gloves, untie her bonnet. He frowned. "Have you come here unescorted?"

"Yes," she said. Out of politeness, he helped her out of her coat. "My lodgings aren't far from here. I'm attending a school for gifted young women; my father saw that I should be educated."

"Of course, you're a modern woman," said Grantaire. He sighed. "I suppose I should at least let you in for tea, but as I've said before, I've really much work to do."

"That would be lovely."

As she sat in the kitchen, he poured her some tea, but instead of joining her, resigned to leaning against the window with his arms folded, leaving a decent distance between them. "Did my parents put you up to this?

"No. I've told you, I want to see your paintings." She held the cup in her hands, but waited as it was too hot to drink. "Although they did give me your address."

Grantaire exhaled with restraint. "I must apologise on their behalf; they're always trying to set me up like this."

"They're just looking out for your best interests, I'm sure," Cosette replied. He noticed that she drank her tea with cream but no sugar. "For my interests as well."

"You're going to pretend that you have any interest in me?" he asked, more as a rhetorical point.

"I could learn to have an interest in you," she reasoned, speaking more hopefully than he could have imagined.

"Unlikely."

"You're so cynical," she said, setting down her teacup. "Have you ever known love, Horace?"

That engendered in him the most bitter expression. "Don't call me that."

"Why?" she asked, eyes fluttering innocently. "That's your name, isn't it? What else am I to call you?"

He froze at the sound of the door creaking open.

"Grantaire, you've got to hear this one. It's--" Enjolras looked equally surprised upon seeing Grantaire with Cosette. He still held the book in his hands. "I apologise, I didn't realise you still had company over."

"Oh, is this your apprentice?" Cosette asked, sitting up in her chair. "You must be quite good to have an apprentice."

Grantaire and Enjolras exchanged glances. He was still wearing the artist's smock, despite having never held a paintbrush.

"Erm, yes," Grantaire said, stepping forward. "Cosette, this is Enjolras; Enjolras, may I introduce Miss Cosette Fauchelevent of Norfolk."

Cosette stood up, holding out her wrist with a kind smile.

"Nice to meet you," said Enjolras, shaking her hand, and she turned to Grantaire with an amused expression. Enjolras placed a hand on the door, making an exit. "Again, sorry to disturb you--"

"Nonsense," Cosette replied. "We were just exchanging pleasantries. And what is it that you're reading?"

"Poetry," said Enjolras.

Upon spying the cover, Cosette's eyes lit up. "Lord Byron!" Without warning, she swiped it out of his hands. "I love his work. The way he addresses the reader, you can imagine it were as though he were speaking to you directly. It's so romantic," she swooned, holding it close to her chest. She sat back down. "Perhaps you would like to give us a reading?"

Grantaire watched as Enjolras calmly sat at the table next to her.

Cosette flipped the book open to a page, scanning the title. "'And Wilt Thou Weep When I Am Low?' Here," she said, sliding it towards him.

Enjolras took it carefully, lifting it up to read a few verses.

> _"My heart is sad, my hopes are gone,_   
_My blood runs coldly through my breast;_   
_And when I perish, thou alone_   
_Wilt sigh above my place of rest._
> 
> _"And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace_   
_Doth through my cloud of anguish shine:_   
_And for a while my sorrows cease,_   
_To know thy heart hath felt for mine."_

It was in unison that Cosette and Enjolras lifted their gazes to Grantaire, hers a starry-eyed wonder and his a startled silence.

Grantaire remained with his arms folded. "Fine. I'll allow you see my work, but then you really must leave."

The three of them ascended to the workshop, Grantaire rather rushed in his steps as he led Cosette, Enjolras following silently behind.

"Here," he said, pointing her to the first of his paintings. "You were raised Catholic, yes? You must remember the story of [Doubting Thomas](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doubting_Thomas#/media/File:Caravaggio_-_The_Incredulity_of_Saint_Thomas.jpg)?"

She frowned at the gruesome scene. A shadow hung over Christ's head as he took Thomas' fingers and protruded them into the gaping hole at his side.

"Or perhaps you would like this one, [David and Goliath](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_with_the_Head_of_Goliath_\(Caravaggio,_Rome\))?"

But Cosette walked directly past the severed head, giving it no interest as she spied a finished work in the corner.

"What's this?" she asked, standing before the depiction of St. Paul.

Grantaire felt the blood drain from his face as she leaned down, examining the face. Until this point, he hadn't noticed it, the man had begun to look like Enjolras. Come to think of it, the subjects of several of his works had begun to take a similar likeness since their acquaintance.

"This is truly something," she said, stepping back to observe the work. "The way the scene is lit up, the emotion of it. My father is good friends with a bishop; his parish would be very pleased to have something like this."

Grantaire was hardly impressed. "The church really has money to spend on something like that?"

"Sure. Or one of its wealthier patrons could donate it." She studied Grantaire's doubtful expression. "As an artist I would think you would more about the market for it."

"Is that why you came here?" Grantaire asked hotly. "To insult me?"

"Grantaire," Enjolras said softly, placing a cool hand on his shoulder.

"I just want to help you," said Cosette. From what he could tell, her intention was sincere. As for her motive, he had no idea.

"Alright," he sighed. "If you want to help me, it's your own fault...but I suppose if you do manage to sell any of these, I'll give you a cut."

"Give me a cut?" she blinked in surprise.

"Yes," said Grantaire, pacing in front of Paul and looking it over, his arm clasped to his elbow behind his back. His voice was quieter, modest. "I believe that is what dealers do."

A smile bloomed on Cosette's face. "Really? Thank you, Horace," she said, reaching out to touch him in some way, perhaps deciding against a hug before holding out her hand.

Grantaire made eye contact and they shook on it.

"I-I'll do my best," she promised.

"I'm sure," said Grantaire. His voice returned to its usual dramatic air. "The fate of my career as an artist rests in your capable hands. Now, if you must visit me for any reason, I would prefer if next time you would give me some notice."

Cosette gave a polite smile. "Of course."

Out of decorum, Grantaire offered to walk her home, and out of politeness, she refused.

After she left, Grantaire returned to the studio with a heaving sigh. Enjolras had returned to reading a book on the couch.

"Who was that?" he asked as Grantaire sat quite next to him, wriggling his way into Enjolras' lap.

Grantaire looked up at him, silently gazing at him with affection. "No one. My art dealer, apparently. No, she's some girl my parents want me to marry."

"And are you going to marry her?" asked Enjolras.

Grantaire blinked. "No."

Enjolras ran a hand through the Grantaire's thick curls. He furrowed his brow curiously. "Has your hair gotten longer?"

"It could use a trim." Grantaire smiled as he reached a hand to brush a hair from Enjolras' forehead. "And yours hasn't grown a inch."

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. "It's because I'm dead."

Grantaire shared a laugh with him. "I had almost forgotten."

They sat together in silence for some time more.

"Horace?"

"Shut up." Grantaire pouted as Enjolras laughed lightly. "I gave you your last name and I can just as easily give you a first name you hate."

Enjolras gave a smirk. "Something Finnish, perhaps."

Grantaire rolled his eyes. "What a disaster. Only Jehan of all people could trouble us with their esoteric knowledge."

***

"Do you really have to sell your paintings?" Enjolras asked later that night as Grantaire gave him his usual bath. "I understand you need to make a living, but then they won't be yours anymore."

"That's true," said Grantaire, running a bar of soap under Enjolras' arm. "At least, they won't be in my physical possession. But they'll always be mine. Even if I don't sign them, they have my name in every brushstroke. No matter where they end up, they'll never be able to escape the fact that I was the one who made them."

Enjolras nodded thoughtfully, his arm drifting below the surface. Grantaire laid a hand on his shoulder and stood up.

"Can I ask you something?" Enjolras voiced.

Grantaire returned with a towel. "Anything."

Enjolras stood from the bath, water running off his cold skin. Grantaire wrapped him in the towel as he stepped out, and he grasped the corners of it, shivering. "Y-you have touched my body in most places I know of," he exhaled.

"Yes?" Grantaire handed him a nightshirt as he was dry. "Does it bother you? I told you to let me know if I should stop--"

"No, it's perfectly fine." Enjolras slipped the shirt over his head. Drying his head one last time with the towel, he hung it over one shoulder. His gaze was trained on the floor when he added, "What I'm asking is, may I do the same to you?"

Grantaire froze. Their eyes met, and he had never felt such a strong mixture of joy and terror.

"Let us sit down," he said finally. "We should talk first."

They went to his room and sat on the bed, the same they had shared in sleep and sleep alone these past few nights. Unsure where to begin, Grantaire fidgeted anxiously, tapping his foot on the floor. Enjolras spoke first.

"The girl, Cosette, do you wish I were more like her?"

"What? No," Grantaire said, eyes wide with shock. "No, I would never wish you to be any way other than how you are."

"But you don't want me."

"I do."

"Grantaire," said Enjolras, as he knew exactly how to say the other man's name to capture his complete attention. "If you want me as I do you, then why do you decline my advances?"

"Because!" Grantaire took a second to calm himself, retiring to a bitter expression. "You only want me because I'm the only man you've ever known. You're drunk on me, Enjolras. My presence has clouded your judgement. If circumstances were different, and if the world were no stranger to you, you would see just how ugly I am."

"That's not true," Enjolras protested. "I've been outside and seen many people. I would still choose you."

"A day is hardly enough time," said Grantaire. "In some years, you could find a woman to love."

"I don't want to be with a woman," said Enjolras. "I want to be with you."

"There are other men you can lie with."

"Then you can be my first."

Grantaire felt tears began to form in the creases of his eyes, but Enjolras gently wiped them away. He took Grantaire's hands in his and brought them softly to his lips. Slowly, he began to pull the artist's shirt over his head with no resistance.

He brought a hand to Grantaire's chest. Unlike Enjolras, Grantaire had no shortage of body hair, and Enjolras carefully brushed his fingers through the tuft of hair on his chest. His hands made their way down his sides, although this was more familiar territory from their many embraces. His fingers slid over Grantaire's hips through his trousers and reached his thighs.

"You have more muscle here than I have," he remarked.

"It's from my boxing days. There was a time I was much more active."

"Why did you stop?"

"I grew tired of it, I suppose. I found other things to fill my time."

Enjolras nodded. His hands had stopped; Grantaire wondered if perhaps he hadn't imagined they would reach this point.

"The night you brought me back to life," said Enjolras, "I remember you placed your head on my chest to hear if my heart was beating. I confess it was from that moment I fell in love with you, and I never quite recovered. There could be no one else but you."

Their eyes met once more, and it was then that the artist swept his arms around Enjolras, pulling him into a real, unmistakable, passionate kiss.

The night was warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poems quoted in this chapter are Lord Byron's ["And Wilt Thou Weep When I Am Low"](https://allpoetry.com/And-Wilt-Thou-Weep-When-I-Am-Low-) and ["Remind Me Not, Remind Me Not"](https://www.internal.org/George_Gordon_Lord_Byron/Remind_Me_Not_Remind_Me_Not).
> 
> As for Caravaggio:  
[David with the Head of Goliath](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_with_the_Head_of_Goliath_\(Caravaggio,_Rome\)#/media/File:David_with_the_Head_of_Goliath-Caravaggio_\(1610\).jpg), 1610  
[The Incredulity of Saint Thomas](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Incredulity_of_Saint_Thomas_\(Caravaggio\)#/media/File:Caravaggio_-_The_Incredulity_of_Saint_Thomas.jpg), c. 1601-2
> 
> Thanks for reading so far. I don't even care about my other fic at this point, as I just live and breathe this one, and now it's turning to like a full length thing, so yeah. I hope you enjoyed the domestic fluff in this chapter, and next time we're going to a ball at Courfeyrac's!


	4. Chapter 4

In one bed, two naked bodies lie pressed against each other. The room was dark, save for moonlight from the lone window. Grantaire felt as Enjolras nuzzled his face into his chest.

"How are you feeling?" Grantaire whispered.

"Wonderful. I have never felt like that before. Thank you."

Grantaire ran a hand down his side, laid a kiss in Enjolras' hair. He closed his eyes; meanwhile, Enjolras' looked out the window at the night sky.

"What are those? Are those stars?"

Grantaire peeped one eye open. "Do you really mean to ask that?"

Enjolras' expression was sincere. He never felt the need to be embarrassed, however.

The artist comfortably adjusted his arm around him. "How can you possibly have not seen the stars before?"

"It's always so cloudy," replied Enjolras. "Perhaps I've seen them, but not like this."

Grantaire nodded. It always surprised him how otherworldly Enjolras' experience was, to find brilliance in the mundane and not to bother himself with formalities.

"Combeferre told me the sun is a star," said Grantaire.

"Is that so? How do they know that?"

"I don't know. It's just something he told me once."

"Hmm." Enjolras continued to gaze out of the window. "Well, who put them there?"

"What do you mean?" Grantaire asked. "They're the stars; they were always there."

"Were they?"

Grantaire opened his mouth to dismiss this, but stopped himself, pondering the question. "I don't know," he concluded, and then he pulled Enjolras closer, affectionately burying his face in his hair. He felt Enjolras return the gesture by wrapping his arms around Grantaire more tightly.

"Grantaire," he whispered.

"Yes?"

"There's one thing you've never told me."

Grantaire shifted, pulling him closer. "Anything, my love. I'll tell you anything."

"You've never told me how I died."

Grantaire's face fell, although Enjolras couldn't see it in the dark. "That's hardly important," he said, although he doubted that was enough to change the subject.

"There was already a knife wound in my chest." Enjolras' words were like an echo in his mind. "Someone wanted me to die."

"That was something Joly did to help you breathe," Grantaire explained. "You were well on your way out before he did that."

"What happened before that, then?"

Grantaire's hands felt clammy and he grew anxious, searching for something, anything he could say to satisfy the man's curiosity. "A highwayman. You were attacked by a highwayman. We found you on the road. Joly did what he could to save you, but you were gone."

"Oh." There was a long silence. "You really know nothing about my life before?"

"No. Nothing at all."

Enjolras stirred slightly, lifting his head in contemplation. Finally, he laid down to rest once more, seeming content in Grantaire's embrace.

"Put it far from you mind," Grantaire suggested. "What does it matter, really? It's in the past now."

Enjolras did not protest at this point, and Grantaire breathed a sigh of relief. He closed his eyes and began to drift asleep.

He awoke with a start, feeling like a massive weight was on his chest. He felt strong arms around him, cold, constricting.

"Enjolras!" He squirmed in the man's grasp, until in an instant, the weight was off him, the man let go.

"Sorry!" Enjolras exclaimed in surprise as Grantaire coughed, gasping until he breathed normally again.

"Wait!" Grantaire acted on impulse as he sensed Enjolras begin to get out of bed. Both of them froze, staring at each other in the moonlight. "What was that?" Grantaire breathed. "You have some sort of superhuman strength?"

"I don't know. One moment I had my arms around you, and then...I didn't notice until you called my name." He retracted his hands. "I should--I should stay away from you."

"I don't think that's necessary," said Grantaire, a hit of desperation lingering in his voice. They shared another unspoken agreement, and Enjolras slowly lied down beside him once more, remaining still as the artist threaded his arms around him.

***

When Enjolras awoke, he was alone, feeling oddly sober. The room was bright red, the light of dawn creeping in through the window. The world was quiet. He crawled to the window, peered down onto the street below, where a person or two passed by now and then, going somewhere, somewhere he did not know. He had never seen the sky this color. Hadn't he read something about that, somewhere? "Red sky at night, sailor's delight; red sky in morning, sailor's warning." Enjolras had never been on a ship, or seen the ocean.

Enjolras felt oddly sober.

He quickly dressed, throwing on a shirt to cover the holes in his chest before making his way to the kitchen.

He calmed at the sound of Grantaire cooking breakfast, eggs sizzling on a stove. "Good morning!" the man said warmly as Enjolras sat down at the table. As usual, he enthusiastically approached to greet him, placing a hand on his shoulder, Enjolras raising his chin for a quick kiss. "How did you sleep?"

"Well enough," he answered, feeling a smile cross his lips.

"Good." Grantaire pulled a whistling kettle off the stove. "Today's a big day; this evening we'll be attending the function at Courfeyrac's. I do hope you're prepared to meet the rest of my friends?"

"Enjolras?"

Enjolras looked up with a start. The cup of tea that Grantaire had just poured sat before him, and Grantaire stood expectantly waiting for his answer. "What?" he said hesitantly.

"I was asking if you're prepared to meet my friends?"

"Oh." Enjolras watched as vapours trailed off of the steaming cup.

Grantaire frowned. "Are you alright? If you don't want to meet them, I can certainly tell them we can't make it--"

"What? No," said Enjolras, clutching his forehead. "We can go. Sorry, I've just a lot on my mind."

Grantaire sat next to him, looking into his eyes intently. "I wish you would tell me if something's the matter."

Enjolras flashed a smile. "No. I look forward to meeting your friends."

Grantaire stared back at him, finally giving a nod. "Good." He stood up again to fix Enjolras a plate. Enjolras spooned some sugar into his tea.

  
***

A light drizzle fell as the carriage rolled up to Courfeyrac's address, circling the courtyard until the horses pulled to a stop before the entrance. Grantaire stepped out first, removing his cloak and attempting to shield Enjolras from the rain, who brushed aside his gesture, and they made haste for the door.

A servant greeted them as they entered, and after their coats were taken, Grantaire led Enjolras towards the parlor. Many of the fellows had already gathered, as he could hear their voices echoing; at his side, Enjolras studied the high ceilings of the grand corridor. Gilded candelabras lit the way, and the gentle sound of harp music could be heard.

"Is that--Grantaire, it's been months!" Courfeyrac rushed to greet him with a smile as soon as they entered the room. "Jehan said you were coming, but I wasn't sure to believe them. We thought you had all but disappeared. And who's this?"

Grantaire smiled gently, glancing from his friend to Enjolras, who was beginning to look more like a frightened deer. "Courfeyrac, allow me to introduce my dear friend, Enjolras, visiting from the country."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance then," Courfeyrac's voice rang gregariously.

He held out his hand and Enjolras studied it hesitantly for a moment, glancing to Grantaire who gave an encouraging nod.

"Nice to meet you," he said, returning Courfeyrac's handshake.

"Aren't you a peculiar fellow," Courfeyrac responded, vaguely amused. "What brings you to the city?"

Another pause. Grantaire was running circles in his mind. _Why didn't we prepare for this? We should have set the story straight before we came--_

"Grantaire and I were friends long ago in childhood. It was several months ago he invited me to the city to see some of the things he's been working on, but I daresay I was not persuaded to leave," Enjolras explained with no trouble. "London is fascinating."

"Indeed it is." Courfeyrac returned a smile. "Come, I'll introduce you to the others. And I'm sure they're all dying to see you again, R."

He led them over to Jehan and Combeferre, who were engaged in a heated discussion.

"I'm telling you, perhaps these equations could be used for, I don't know, space exploration?"

"Then I must remind you of one of my favorite Walt Whitman poems." Jehan's face suddenly resumed its usual wondrous air.

This beyond irked Combeferre, who folded his arms impatiently. "Oh, don't quote Walt Whitman at me--"

"'When I heard the learn'd astronomer...'"

"Really, this is unnecessary. Jehan, we've all heard you say it before."

"...When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them..."

Combeferre clutched his brow, having no choice but to wait for Jehan to finish reciting the poem.

"...Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.' Oh, hello, Enjolras. R," he greeted them cheerfully.

"Oh, so you've met before," Courfeyrac said keenly. "Then Combeferre, let me introduce Enjolras, R's friend who's visiting from the country."

"A pleasure to meet you, then," said Combeferre, his impatience from Jehan suddenly evaporated as he cordially held out his hand. Enjolras knew to shake it this time.

"So what do you think?" Jehan asked, eyes prodding Enjolras.

"What?" Enjolras lifted his gaze.

"Do you want something to drink?" Grantaire asked gently, touching his elbow.

Enjolras gave a single nod, his attention pulled in several ways.

Jehan continued. "Do you enjoy stargazing on its own merit, or do you need to know everything about them: what their names are, what's their classification, age, how far away they are?"

Enjolras blinked. "I've heard the sun is a star."

"See!" said Combeferre pointedly. "He understands. There's beauty in knowledge."

"There's beauty in going outside," countered Jehan, sweeping their arms in a grand gesture. "In experiencing life! Smelling the flowers and the trees, hearing the birds sing!"

"Enjolras," Grantaire said, returning to hand him a glass of wine, "Would you accompany me to--"

He stopped, seeing as Joly and Bossuet had already approached, and it was too late to leave without a greeting.

"Capital R, we haven't seen you in months!" remarked Bossuet. "How have you been?"

"Caught up in my work, I'm afraid," said Grantaire, offering an apologetic smile. "May I introduce an old friend of mine, Enjolras. Enjolras, these are my friends, Bossuet and Joly."

"Hello," Enjolras breathed, holding out his hand firmly.

"Pleasure," said Bossuet, giving a cordial nod. He turned his attention to Joly, who was in a daze, his mouth hung open slightly. "Are you quite alright?"

"Yes, of course; nice to meet you," said Joly, returning to his senses to shake Enjolras' hand. He blinked. "It's rather uncanny, sir, but I feel as though we've met before."

"A coincidence I'm sure, as that's rather unlikely," Enjolras said smoothly, giving a polite smile. "I've never visited the city before."

"Strange," replied Joly, studying him in a manner that made Grantaire uncomfortable.

Enjolras didn't seem to notice, and calmly took a sip of his wine. As he lifted his glass however, his sleeve slipped a fraction down his arm, exposing the skin. Grantaire's eyes nervously flitted to Joly's, and they made eye contact.

"Well," Grantaire interrupted, grabbing Enjolras' elbow, "We'll talk later, but first we should go say hello to more people--"

It was then that Courfeyrac stood at the center of the room, clinking a wine glass in announcement. The murmurs of voices around the room died down as he addressed the company.

"Good evening, my dear friends; you've probably wondered why I've gathered you here at my not-so-humble estate. In a moment, we shall dine, but first, our dear Combeferre has an announcement to make."

"Yes, it's true," said Combeferre, stepping before his friends. "The Royal Geographical Society have received a government grant in their expedition to Antarctica, and I have been selected for the voyage as part of the medical personel whilst they survey the land. In fact, I am to set sail in a few days time."

"Really!" exclaimed Jehan. "That's amazing!"

"This get-together was planned as a sort of going away party," Courfeyrac explained. "Now, let's retire to the dining room, and celebrate!"

Murmurs of surprise and delight echoed amongst the friends. Bossuet placed a congratulatory hand on Combeferre's shoulder, but Grantaire was rather distracted, hovering close to Enjolras as Joly's continued to send them suspicious glances.

***

Everyone moved to the dining room, where Grantaire pulled a chair out for Enjolras, and Joly sat across from them, next to Bossuet. The table was humming with conversation, the guests drinking and eating. Grantaire passed Enjolras a plate of fruit and cheese, noticing that Joly was watching them intently, his complexion grown as pale as Enjolras'.

"Grantaire," said Joly, "I never thanked you for saving my life. That highwayman was ready to kill me and take whatever was left, but you attacked him. You saved me."

"What highwayman?" interrupted Bossuet. "When was this?"

"Months ago, when I went with R to visit the grave of LeMarque," explained Joly with a cool expression. "On the way back to the city, we encountered a highwayman on the road. R had fallen asleep, and if he hadn't jumped out of the wagon to catch the robber by surprise, I would not be here speaking to you today."

"Is that so?" said Bossuet, turning to Grantaire with surprise. "Come to think of it, I do remember that evening; Joly came in soaking wet, somewhat shaken up about something. I suppose that would be it."

Grantaire said nothing, just glanced to Enjolras. The man was already invested in the story.

"Really," he said, leaning into the table. "You saved him?"

Grantaire nodded slowly, unsure how else to proceed.

"What a stroke of luck, then," said Enjolras. "Those highway robbers can be really nasty; I mean to say I've dealt with them on occasion."

Joly raised his eyebrows at that. "Well, it was quite the struggle. R took the knife from him, slashed at him this way and that, finally landing a strong kick to his stomach."

"You mentioned you used to box," Enjolras added. "The poor fellow."

Joly nearly choked on his wine. "Yes, well at that point, we began to feel sorry for him, too. I decidedly stitched up his wounds; there were several cuts on his forearms."

"What a coincidence," said Enjolras with a laugh, "I also have--" As the realisation hit him, Enjolras' eyes lost some of their mirth, and suddenly he grew very silent.

"What's wrong?" asked Joly, despite Grantaire's disapproving headshake.

Enjolras' expression had turned very grim. "Nothing," he responded. "Actually, I'm not feeling well. I think I should go home." He stood up.

Grantaire immediately followed. "Let's go then--"

"No." Enjolras' eyes met his, a sort of grave expression in them. "I wouldn't want you to miss dinner with your friends. I can make it back alone."

He turned to leave but Grantaire placed a hand on his arm. "At least let me see you out."

There eyes met in a glaring exchange.

"Very well," Enjolras said tersely, and without another word, they left together.

As soon as they were in the privacy of the corridor, Grantaire grabbed Enjolras' elbow. "Enjolras, I can explain--"

"You lied to me." His eyes were glaring, his grave expression one Grantaire had never seen. It terrified him.

"That was a different time," Grantaire pleaded. He choked a nervous laugh. "Do you honestly think you could be a murderer?"

"But he is, isn't he?" said a voice, and Grantaire turned with horror to see Joly had followed them. He approached Enjolras. "I thought you were dead."

Enjolras blinked, his black and red irises trembling in his silence.

"No," said Grantaire, faking a smile. "He's clearly alive, can't you see?"

"He still has the stitches I gave him," protested Joly. He held out his hand. "Can I see your arm, sir?"

"I don't think that's necessary," said Grantaire, stepping between them.

Enjolras frowned and moved past him, pulling back his sleeves to reveal the scars that weren't scars, because even after months, the open wounds still hadn't healed, held together by thread.

Joly had only a moment to look at them before he shrank in terror. "Good Lord, you are dead! And to think, I touched your hand. I can't get sick again, R, why would you bring him here--"

"Calm down," said Grantaire. "You're not going to get sick. I've been living with him for months."

"What?" Joly spluttered. "But--how? He's--if he's dead, then how--"

"I--"

"He brought me back to life," explained Enjolras, as though it were the simplest thing in the world.

"I've done something I shouldn't have," said Grantaire, at the same time.

Joly glanced between them, still obviously shaken. "Good. I'm not even going to ask how, but why? R, why would you bring this murderous bandit back to life?"

"So it's true," said Enjolras, turning to Grantaire. "I was the highwayman, and I tried to kill both you and Joly?"

"And Grantaire killed you," Joly added helpfully.

"You were the one who said to pull the knife out!" Grantaire contended.

"I only did that to end his suffering, seeing as he had no way of recovering at that point," Joly bickered. "That's about the greatest act of mercy this man deserves."

By now, Enjolras was staring at the floor, looking as though he were about to throw up. "I think I should go," he said.

"No, stay," said Grantaire, grabbing his wrist. "What's got you so upset?"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Enjolras replied, more of a statement than a question.

"Come now," said Grantaire, "Does it really bother you that much?"

Enjolras glared back at him. "I want to go home."

Grantaire opened his mouth to argue, but pressed his lips together in silence. He let go of Enjolras in a flourish. "Fine, then. Go ahead and ruin a perfectly good evening." As the other man began to walk towards the entrance, the artist bitterly called after him, "Thanks for embarrassing me in front of my friends!"

"Yes, because he's the one who embarrassed you," said Joly, lifting an eyebrow.

The two of them returned to dinner, where the rest of the party remained in good spirits.

"Not a word," Grantaire whispered to Joly before he made his way around the table to find his seat. Joly didn't answer, and as Grantaire watched him sit down, returning conversation with Bossuet, Grantaire took the nearest wine bottle and began filling his glass, choosing instead to listen in on Jehan arguing with Combeferre once more.

"That was him!"

Grantaire finished his glass and swiveled his head towards Bossuet, who was looking to him intently. "Did you say something?"

"That was him, wasn't he? The bandit?" From his expression, Bossuet looked rather entertained.

Luckily, Joly seemed to share Grantaire need for discretion. "I'll tell you about it later," he told Bossuet.

"No, that must have been him; I saw the scars on his arms! R, it's quite a trick you've pulled, somehow turning such an urchin into a distinguished gentleman," he continued to both of their horror. "But why have his wounds not healed?"

This caused a change in Joly's expression, and he turned once more to Grantaire. "Yes, R, indeed, why are they not healed?"

Grantaire hardly even had the time to come up with an excuse. "I--"

"That man is a corpse!" Joly cried, standing from his chair. The table grew silent, and all laid eyes on him.

Once again, Grantaire breathed nervous laughter. "Joly, what are you talking about, I--"

"He said you brought him back to life!"

Grantaire was ready to argue, but it was about this point that the wine hit him, so he stood. "I did bring him back to life, which is more than you've ever done in your entire medical practice!" he shouted back.

"Are you insane?" replied Joly. "That man tried to kill me! And you just let him loose; he'll kill all of us!"

"Come on, my friends, settle down!" said Courfeyrac, intervening to put a hand on Joly's shoulder. "What's this?"

"That man who just left," Joly breathed, pointing at the door, "is a murderous ghost that Grantaire has brought back to haunt me!"

Courfeyrac was astonished. "Grantaire, is any of this true?"

"And anyone who has met him would know he wouldn't hurt a fly!" Grantaire felt a infant burp escape him. Beside him, Combeferre surreptitiously swiped the wine glass from his hand. "Well, I once saw him kill a rat with his bare hands. But he wouldn't do it again! At least, I don't think he will..." His eyes widened as he recalled the events from the previous night. "He didn't mean to kill me!"

Several gasps could be heard around the room.

"He tried to kill you?!" Joly cried. "Again?"

"It....was an accident!" Grantaire called back, his speech beginning to slur. Not that he had had much to drink, but he was accustomed to a certain behavior.

"Grantaire," interrupted Combeferre, who was now holding him by the shoulders to keep him upright. "You mean to say that man was indeed a killer who has tried to kill you on multiple occassions--"

"And me!" Joly interrupted.

"And Joly," Combeferre corrected himself, "And we've just let him loose onto the streets of London?"

"Of course not!" said Grantaire. "He took a carriage home."

"Home?" wondered Courfeyrac. "I thought you said he was visiting from the country."

"That was all a load of bollocks," slurred Grantaire, waving an arm. "No, he went back to my studio."

Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Bossuet, and Joly all shared a glance.

***

It was pouring rain by the time the group of friends reached the building at midnight, several of them armed with guns. They huddled in the landing outside the flat; when no one else would, Courfeyrac knocked, sword in hand.

"Enjolras, are you there?"

There was no answer.

A hand--likely Combeferre's--pushed Grantaire towards the door, and he unlocked it with his key, the key of which Enjolras had the only copy.

The door opened slowly to a dark room. Grantaire entered and lit a few candles, his friends carefully following, armed and ready. He went upstairs while they searched the flat, and when it had been deemed clear, they ascended to the studio to find him sitting with his head buried in his arms on the table, sobbing uncontrollably.

"I didn't even know he could write," Grantaire squeaked, holding up the crumpled letter.

"He could write?" said Bossuet. "Are you sure he could read?"

"He could read," interjected Jehan, who had been tagging along silently until this point. "Just last week I came by with some books for him."

Everyone but Grantaire turned to him in astonishment.

"You...you knew Enjolras?" Combeferre asked, if a bit skeptically.

"Yes," said Jehan, perfectly calm. "I chanced across him and Grantaire at the tailor's last week. We sat for tea."

"And?" said Joly. "What did you make of him?"

Jehan shrugged. "He seemed like a perfectly alright fellow, not a murderer at all. But our time together was brief."

"Alright then, R," said Bossuet, "if the letter is indeed from him, what does it say?"

"I can't tell you!" Grantaire cried, snatching the paper away as Joly tried to take it. "It's...personal."

"Does it say anything about his whereabouts, then?" asked Courfeyrac. "R, you've got to help us out."

Grantaire stared at the letter in his hands for a moment, skimming the words a second time. He swallowed hard, closing his eyes, then wiped his face on his sleeve. "He's gone. It says he's gone."

"Gone where?" demanded Joly.

"I don't know. He's angry at me, so he's run away." Grantaire threw his upper body onto the surface of the table once more and collapsed, bawling in the most unflattering way. "It happened here, can you imagine? I brought him to life here."

"What is he talking about?" interrupted Combeferre. "He keeps saying that."

"R," said Joly, now approaching his friend with concern. "You said something earlier, that you did something you shouldn't have. Could you explain?"

Grantaire sobbed for a moment, his cries becoming less audible. When he was calmer, he pulled himself to his feet. Rain was pouring on the skylight, and with his friends listening intently, Grantaire explained the events of that crucial evening. There was no lightning, but he held the metal prongs up to demonstrate.

"I don't believe that for a minute," said Combeferre when he was done. "Back to life from the dead? You're sure he was dead?"

"I checked his pulse," said Joly. "He was quite dead."

"But you had been drinking," said Bossuet. "We had all been before you left."

"This was long after that," said Joly. "R was the one who got drunk after I left, it seems."

"Then he made a miraculous recovery!" said Combeferre. "Perhaps we're on the brink of a major medical discovery."

"But he wasn't alive, Combeferre," Joly remarked in a grave tone. "His wounds hadn't healed. He was essentially an animated corpse."

"As far as I could tell, he seemed intelligent," Bossuet weighed in. "Was he always like that, from the time you brought him back, R?"

Grantaire had shrank back into his chair, clutching his face in his hands. "He's not a killer," his voice quivered.

"He's no help," concluded Combeferre. "Unless--Jehan, you said you met him before?"

The poet nodded, looking up from the stack of books he had been studying on the sofa. "I feel rather silly," he said, holding one up. "He's not Finnish at all, is he, R?"

Grantaire clutched his stomach. "An angel walks the earth," he murmured.

"I met the pair of them just last week," Jehan explained, standing up. "He seemed to have a few strange mannerisms, but otherwise the perfect gentleman. From what I can tell he was very well-read; although, now you mention it, he had never heard of poetry before." He frowned pensively.

"He's gone now either way," remarked Courfeyrac, placing a hand on Jehan's shoulder. "Perhaps we'll see him again someday."

"Unlikely," scoffed Combeferre, adjusting his glasses. "I'm beginning to wonder if he's a conman, fooled us into his scheme. Come now, a walking corpse? Ridiculous."

"R said they've been living together for months," countered Joly. "And you didn't see his arms."

Combeferre crossed his arms rather doubtfully. "I'll believe it when I see him."

As his friends continued to argue, Grantaire sat still, barely holding himself together. In his hands, he held the letter, and trying to keep it from staining with more tears, he read it once more.

_Grantaire,_

_I woke up this morning to the strangest realisation. Not that I didn't enjoy the events of the night prior, but that I did, and it made me realise just how much I have been missing, what you have kept me from. I had never questioned it, but that's the point. You kept me here in this room under a lock and key stronger than any metal--that of my own damn mind. When you finally let me venture outside, you kept me on a short leash, and I considered this a luxury. I know better now._

_When I found out you lied to me of my origin, I was hurt beyond words. I should have predicted it, seeing as you had me lie to all your friends. I wonder just how little I know about you. R? Is that your name as well? Your secrets have wounded me more than any physical wound you had already inflicted. Here I was believing that you brought me life; I had never considered that you could be the one who took it away in the first place. But I understand why you did it, and I would have forgiven you easily. You still used the opportunity to keep things from me. What is it that you want, is it control? You said if I had seen the outside world, I would never choose you. Is that why you kept me here, because you were afraid of losing me?_

_I came to the conclusion that if you really cared about me, you would let me have my freedom. But you wouldn't let me, so I had to take it for myself. By the time you read this, I hope I will be far away, headed for a distant land. Don't trouble yourself with where I've gone. You've said it before: you made me and I will always be yours, to some extent. I hope you can move on from this, too. I'm sure you and Cosette will have beautiful children._

_Enjolras_

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of lied, this was more of a formal dinner than say, a ball with dancing. I couldn't possibly write a scene like that, having to choreograph the dance sequence when I'm woefully unprepared to do so, having never danced once in my entire life. 
> 
> Anyway, I'll try to get the ending out before Halloween. Brb writing for 3 days straight*
> 
> *3 days gay I mean. Gayly writing for 3 days


	5. Chapter 5

Combeferre felt himself swing to and fro in his hammock as he attempted--yes _attempted_\--sleep in his cabin on the South-ward voyage of the H.M.S. Morpheus. His mind was relentless, constantly filled with his thoughts: new ideas, connections made from his many studies, apprehensions whether he had packed enough for the trip. Although he lie awake, he hardly noticed one of the crewmen approach him, immersed in his thoughts until his shoulder was given a shake.

"Good evening?" he answered, putting on the glasses he had kept in his hand, as he didn't trust them not to slide away had he set them anywhere else.

"Sir, your presence is requested in the brig."

The crewman must have noticed the look of terror on his face, quickly adding, "Not that, sir. Captain wants you to check on the health of a man we've been keeping there."

"Oh." Combeferre breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, sir. Right away."

Combeferre followed the man, who lead them under the soft glow of a kerosene lamp to the bowels of the ship, where was located a small cell for keeping the ship's prisoners.  
"Thats 'im, sir," said the crewman. "Caught as a stowaway this morning. He's been ill, ever since, pale as ice. He refused the evening meal we gave him. Says I that if he wants to starve, let him, but you were requested upon Captain's orders."

He unlocked the door to let Combeferre in. Taking the lamp, he knelt down to the man, who was laying on his side, facing the back wall of the cell. The doctor frowned. "Are you sure he's even alive? He's not breathing."

"That's for you to decide," said the crewmate.

Combeferre reached down to the man's neck, brushing aside the collar of his red wool coat.

"He's not got a pulse," he announced. "I would say he's--"

Suddenly, the man burst to life, rolling onto his back in fit of coughs. Combeferre backed away instantly upon recognising him.

"It's you!" he breathed, staring back in horror as his back touched the cold metal cell bars. "The bandit!"

"What? No," answered Enjolras, who sat up and adjusted the wool cap that covered his hair. "I mean, I suppose I was once." He gave the doctor a quick once-over. "I remember you. It's Combeferre, right?"

"You know each other?" The crewman lifted an eyebrow as he leaned against the wall on the other side, ring of keys dangling from his hand.

Combeferre hurried to meet him. "Yes, this man has conned my friends into some ridiculous belief that he came back from the dead, all so he could steal from them."

"Steal from them?" remarked Enjolras. "I haven't stolen anything."

"This man is a thief and a liar," said Combeferre, pointing. "Lock him up at once!"

The crewman stepped forward to swing the gate closed, looking for its key.

"Wait," said Enjolras, standing. "You're a doctor, right? Can I ask you something?"

"I suppose," responded Combeferre dryly, his arms folded.

"Are you much in the way of stitching wounds? I have some open on my chest that need looked at."

Combeferre raised an eyebrow at that, truly doubtful. "Alright, then, remove your shirt and let's see these wounds."

Enjolras' eyes--an odd color they were--flitted from Combeferre to the other man. "It's quite personal. Could I have them looked at alone?"

"I'm not leaving without his say so," the crewmate remarked. He opened the door. "Although, you can see as you like."

"I'll go nowhere near him!" replied Combeferre. "How do I know he won't attack me?"

"He was searched for weapons when we found 'im," said the crewmate. "I'll make sure he doesn't try nothing."

Combeferre looked to Enjolras with suspicion, then nodded slowly. "Fine. I'll give you about two seconds."

He entered the cell as Enjolras disrobed, taking off his coat and finally slipping his shirt over his head. Combeferre frowned as he lifted the lantern to the man's bare chest, studying it closely. After a minute, he lifted one of the man's arms, studying the stitch marks along the side.

Combeferre turned his head towards the crewman. "Leave us."

***

"Remarkable," Combeferre breathed as he sat with Enjolras, carefully stitching closed the three wounds on his chest. The skin seemed to hold its own, still pliable and springy as the thread pulled it closed, hiding his bones from view. "You have no pulse."

"No," replied Enjolras.

"Yet you breathe?"

"If I want."

Combeferre was baffled by this response. "If you want? You mean to say it's a conscious decision?"

"I had to learn how to act like a living thing in order to be living," explained Enjolras.

"You had to learn to be living," Combeferre repeated.

"Grantaire," said Enjolras, answering the question Combeferre had yet to ask. "He taught me everything."

"I suppose that would make sense. There is no quality about you that seems bandit-like to me," remarked Combeferre.

"I'm not, really." Enjolras frowned. "I didn't even know that I used to be until that night, at Courfeyrac's, when Joly brought it up."

Combeferre leaned his head closer, squinting behind his spectacles. "But how did it work? He put the metal here between the fourth and fifth intercostal spaces, but how did the lightning transfer between them?"

"I don't know," said Enjolras. "Should you know better than me? Grantaire said it was your equipment."

Combeferre just shook his head. "Well," he said conclusively, "You're all patched up. But I would be fascinated to hear more on the subject--"

He faltered as Enjolras made a face, quickly covering his mouth. Quickly looking around, he found a bucket, which already smelled like the contents Enjolras was about to vomit into it.

"Excuse me," he said afterwards, politely wiping his mouth. "There's a reason why I refused my evening meal."

Combeferre nodded. "Let's get you some air."

***

The night air was crisp, but not frigid as they reached the railing of the ship. Enjolras clung onto it. Hardly a soul was on deck, apart from a few night hands, watching the sails.

"Grantaire said some of his funds were missing after the night you disappeared, and I thought him a fool when he claimed you had just taken what was necessary," said Combeferre, looking out over the ocean. "I suppose he was right about that?"

"I wanted to take as little as possible," explained Enjolras. "You must understand I had nothing to my name. I didn't even have a name; Grantaire gave me that. I figured he would want me to have at least something."

"I do apologize, then," said Combeferre.

Enjolras nodded, and a silence filled the air between them.

"It amazed me, the first time I saw the stars like this," said Enjolras, tilting his head back, peering over the sails. "I didn't realise there were so many."

"There's a universe filled with them," said Combeferre, leaning back on the railing.

"Didn't you say the sun was a star?" remarked Enjolras. "How do they know that's true?"

"Yes." He cleared his throat. "Mathematicians have found a way to measure the distance between stars, and accounting for their brightness, and the sun's brightness, we can safely say the sun is of the same brightness and magnitude, that is to say, the sun is a star."

"Huh," said Enjolras, tilting his head.

"But we didn't always know that. For a great long while, philosophers have wondered if the sun is perhaps a star, some even persecuted for their beliefs. Galileo Galilei, the famous one. Giordano Bruno was burned at the stake for believing such things. The Catholic church among others considered it heresy."[1]

Enjolras just nodded, taking the idea into consideration.

Combeferre frowned. "I'm sorry for accusing you earlier. I'll take you to the captain first thing tomorrow and explain that you're a friend of mine, and that this was all just a misunderstanding. He'll let you off at the next port, so you can return to London."

"Thank you for your kindness," said Enjolras. "I'll depart the ship, although I should not like to return to England. If possible, I would wish you not to tell anyone you even saw me."

Combeferre blinked in surprise, but then his expression hardened. "Of course."

Enjolras leaned on the railing, feeling the ocean breeze in his cold veins. "Where did the stars come from?" he pondered quietly again.

"That, sir, I have no idea." Combeferre lifted an eyebrow in amusement. "I'm sure the Church would say it is as in the bible, God made the heavens and the Earth, but as for a scientific explanation, I don't know that we have one yet. Not to say that there is none."

"Do you know what Grantaire said?" said Enjolras. "Well, I've been trying not to think too much about anything Grantaire told me. But he says he believes in God only when it suits him."

"That is a very Grantaire thing to say," said Combeferre with a chuckle. "I suppose he can believe what he wants; just look, he created life." He gestured to Enjolras and frowned. "You know, I believe I'll leave the ship with you at port when it comes to that."

"And abandon your post?" said Enjolras, his brow furrowed. "I thought it was your dream to explore the Antarctic."

Combeferre leaned against the railing next to him and sighed. "I said that at dinner. Honestly, I fear I might die out there."

"Then why would you go?"

This time, Combeferre looked immensely uncomfortable, fingers raking a spot on the back of his neck. "Foolish reasons. I was...trying to impress someone."

Enjolras said nothing, those black and red eyes staring back at him in sincerity.

"No matter," breathed Combeferre, shaking a hand. "This is more important. I promise I won't tell my friends that I ever saw you, but I can't deny that I did. I have to go back to London and research electromagnetic forces as a means of medical treatment."

Enjolras gave a single determined nod. "Then I'm glad we met, that I could have been some help to you." He held out his hand.

Combeferre smiled, and they shared a respectful handshake.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre and Jehan are always arguing because they share the same affection for Courfeyrac, that's why Combeferre embarked on an Antarctic mission to impress him and prove Jehan wrong ;) 
> 
> Hi all, I understand this was a somewhat short update, and in fact this will be the last one before Halloween, or for awhile. I know I meant to have the story finished by then, but I thought then you might know how R feels, not knowing when Enjolras will return, if at all. Thanks for reading so far, dear readers; may we meet again someday.
> 
> [1] source: http://solar-center.stanford.edu/FAQ/Qsunasstar.html#targetText=Only%20then%20was%20it%20proved%20that%20the%20Sun%20is%20a%20star.&targetText=Anaxagoras%2C%20who%20lived%20in%20Athens,few%20hundred%20miles%20in%20size.


	6. Chapter 6

_Ты сейчас далеко-далеко._  
_Между нами — снега и снега._  
_До тебя мне дойти нелегко -  
_ _А до смерти четыри шага._

[As of now, you are far, far away / And between us nothing but snow / To reach you would not be easy / But to death only four steps]

(Old Russian wartime song)

***

A sturdy hand knocked on the door of the old flat. When no response was heard, a key slid into the lock and the mechanism turned, opening the door into the dimly lit kitchen where an old man sat drinking his evening tea. 

"Good God!" he cried at the sight of a tall, pale figure in a dark coat, standing in the doorway.

"Sorry! I'm terribly sorry," replied Enjolras. "I wasn't sure anyone still lived here, and when there was no answer--again, I do apologise."

"There's no need," said the old man, standing from his chair. "I've had enough of charities bursting down my door asking for money. But what brings you here? You used to live here?"

"What?" replied Enjolras, somewhat startled.

"You have a key?"

"Oh." He glanced to the metal object in his hand. "Right. Yes, I lived here once." He frowned. "Again, I'm sorry--how long have you lived here?"

"But a few years," replied the old man. 

"And the previous tenant," said Enjolras, "Did you know him?"

"Did I know them?" asked the man. "Hardly. Some young family who had been here before me. Rent went up and they left."

Enjolras frowned. "Did they move the equipment in the attic when they came?"

"The attic?" By now, the old man had traversed the room, and Enjolras was sure he had overstayed his welcome. "There is no attic. Or I suppose there is, but it's been boarded up for years. Hey!" 

He called after Enjolras, but the younger man had already begun to climb the staircase. A series of boards covered the opening at the top. "_Molotok yest_\--ah, have you a...a hammer?"

"Yes, I do," said the old man, "But why do you need to get in there?"

"I used to live here," Enjolras repeated, as though that were enough explanation. The man seemed to grow weary of questioning him, so he returned with the tool. 

It took little effort to remove the nails, and the boards with them. A mountain of dust fell down, the old man coughing as Enjolras continued up the stairs, dusting off the shoulders of his coat. 

The room was pitch dark, cold, drafty. The old man returned with a candle, and in the flickering light, they found the room largely empty, what few remaining pieces of furniture shrouded in cloth coverings. But as Enjolras spied a canvas in the corner, he moved towards it in great haste. 

"Come here," he called, without looking to the old man, who approached upon his command. 

Carefully, Enjolras removed the sheet covering the work to reveal a finished painting, David holding the head of Goliath. He leaned in closer--the golden haired figure was looking with disgust at the severed head hanging from his left hand, both of them familiar faces. 

"It's you," breathed the old man in wonder. "You're the man in the paintings."

"Paintings?" asked Enjolras, his brow puzzled. "What paintings?"

"Grantaire," he replied. "His exhibition, I've seen it."

Enjolras frowned. "You know Grantaire?"

"Know him?" asked the old man, bewildered. "Not in person, but he's the greatest painter in all of England!"

These words astonished Enjolras, and he was silent.

"Do you think this is an original?" wondered the man.

"What else?" Enjolras remarked flatly. "He used to live here."

The old man's eyes grew wide as anything. "So it is. And it's now it's mine! Well, it's my flat, is that right, sir? I don't suppose you want to split the profit?"

"It's not yours," Enjolras replied, studying the painting intently. After some time, he returned his attention to the old man. "You said he had an exhibition?"

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for this cryptic and short update that didn't explain anything, I promise I'll have another longer update soon--well, soon in a cosmic sense. It's all soon in a cosmic sense. 
> 
> [David with the Head of Goliath](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_with_the_Head_of_Goliath_\(Caravaggio,_Rome\)#/media/File:David_with_the_Head_of_Goliath-Caravaggio_\(1610\).jpg), Caravaggio, 1610


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the Christmas update! 🎅🎄❄
> 
> CW: Suicide

Grantaire must have been about ten or eleven when his mother gave him a pocketful of change at let him wander the market at Christmastime. "Be back when the church bells ring noon," she told him, and he ran off with glee, galloping along the line of stalls with colorful displays of holly and poinsettias. 

With a bag of candies in one hand, and sucking on one in his mouth, he happened along a tent peeking out of an alley. He stopped, and curiosity lured him away, until he found himself facing an old woman wrapped in a shawl. 

"Come in, child," she crowed, waving a hand that clinked with a few bracelets. Her fingers stuck out through the holes in her gloves. "A few coins and I'll read your fortune."

Grantaire entered the confines of the tent, which were lit with a series of ominous candles. He dug a hand into his pocket and pulled out the last of his little allowance. "Alright," he boasted. "Tell me something good, then."

She took his hand and in a moment the change disappeared from his palm. He gasped a breathless gasp, nearly swallowing the candy in his mouth. The old woman smiled, and he could see a single gold tooth glint in her mouth.

"Yes," she said in a raspy voice, tracing the lines of his palm. "Yes! I see a clear future for you."

The boy raised an eyebrow, skeptical of the reading. 

"You," she continued. "Your name is Horace Grantaire, is it not?"

Grantaire's eyes widened. "How did you know?"

"We met in a past life," she said, and then flashed that smile once again. "Now would you like me to tell you?"

Grantaire leaned in, eager to learn of his fate (and similarly having forgotten that his mother had sewn his name into every piece of clothing he wore, ever since that disastrous first year away at prep school). 

"You," said the old woman, pointing a crooked finger at him. "You must find the place in the forest, the place where time stands still. You are an artist, yes?"

Grantaire nodded slowly. He did not remember he still had colored paint marks peeking out from under his shirt sleeve.

"That is where inspiration will strike."

The boy frowned. "Whatever do you mean? The place where time stands still?"

"You will know," she said in a grave tone. 

"And it's in the forest," he continued, skeptical once again. "What forest? Any forest?"

"That is all I can tell you," she said, letting go of his hand and brushing it aside to reach for a cup of something, which she sipped leisurely. 

Grantaire scowled, the piece of candy cracking in his teeth. "That's nonsense. You haven't told me anything! I want my money back."

"It's too late, child," she replied, barely sparing him a glance. "Your fortune has been told."

"But...but I at least need to know where it is!" 

The old woman smiled, giving no explanation.

"You quack!" Grantaire cursed. "I hope you choke on those coins--"

"Horace!"

Grantaire turned his neck to see another boy heading towards him. 

"There you are," he continued, seemingly exasperated. "Mum's been looking for you everywhere. Are you ready to go?"

"Yes," he said, giving a dirty look to the old woman before following his brother. 

"Planck's constant, Monsieur Grantaire!" she called back.

Grantaire turned back with one more glance, but the tent was empty, a dark void where there once were lit candles. He swallowed the remaining piece of candy and ran away. 

***

A gentle snow fell outside as Grantaire sat in his study. Voices echoed from carolers on the streets below. With fingers from one hand drumming on the mahogany inlaid desk, his other mindlessly clutched a book as he stared off into space, lost in thought. In his beard, a few silver streaks were beginning to show.

A young woman appeared to draw the drapes."I thought you'd like to keep the heat in, sir; it's quite cold in here," she said, tugging on the rich velvet fabric to pull across the spacious windows that looked down onto the streets of London below.

"Thank you, Louison, you can head home," he told the servant. 

"Are you sure?" she asked thoughtfully. "If there's any more food I can prepare--"

"No, you've done more than enough," he responded, waving a hand. "I can manage for a few days on my own. Go home to your family."

She smiled. "Thank you, sir. And Merry Christmas."

He gave a nod and watched her go, exhaling as he folded the book under his arm. He didn't know why he had pulled out the old poetry book, but it was now, as he tried not to remind himself, more than five years since Enjolras had left. 

Grantaire stood and made his way to the corner, where he kept a stack of finished canvases, ones that he no longer had room for in his studio, where space was scarce due to his constant taking up of new projects. He knelt down a self portrait, sketchy brushstrokes of a man drinking absinthe, inspired by his last trip to Paris.

And Grantaire had never felt more alone now as he looked in this painting, the look of ennui encaptured in his rough face, his glance hardly noticing the glass in his hand. It was Christmas eve and he had no one to spend it with; his friends all scattered about their ways, and his own family too painful to confront as always. 

Five years. It had been five years since Enjolras left him. He gripped Lord Byron's anthology in his hand pausing as he paced in front of the fire, his long shadow flickering behind him with the dancing of the flames. Another thought passed his brain, and he quickly dismissed it, returning the book to his desk. 

He was desperate to move on. The ghost of his memory continued to haunt him.

Staring into the flames, he realised his task. He swept towards the door with great haste, pulling his coat off the hook. 

***

The sky was dark as Grantaire reached the gallery. His shoes left shallow footprints in the snow as he ascended the front steps. A lantern in one hand and a bottle in another, he set both down to jingle the keys in his pocket. It took some effort to find the right one, but as he set the weight of his hand on the door handle, it opened with no resistance. 

_That's odd_, he thought. Cosette should have come by earlier to lock up before heading to mass with her family. Nonetheless, he ventured inside.

The exhibit had been popular, but the masses, what do they know?. Old style, it was all old style by now. And worse was the face that haunted each one. No one ever questioned it, but he always managed to make Enjolras a part of the scene, whether he was David or Christ or a Saint--or an angel.

Grantaire could picture him now, standing in front of [St. Francis of Assisi](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Francis_of_Assisi_in_Ecstasy_\(Caravaggio\)#/media/File:Saint_Francis_of_Assisi_in_Ecstasy-Caravaggio_\(c.1595\).jpg), holding a candle up to the wall-sized painting in the dark. He remembered every detail, from the loose golden curls on top of his head to his slender white fingers. Those red and black eyes peered at him silently. 

"Grantaire." 

He heard the voice in his head, a smooth undulation like a violin playing a symphony. 

Grantaire opened the bottle of absinthe and began to pour it, leaving a trail along the floor.

"What are you doing?" the voice continued, following him. He walked through several rooms in the gallery, emptying the bottle. 

"Grantaire, it's me," it said, and he felt a cold feeling at his wrist, imagining Enjolras to take his arm. It felt so real, like he was staring into his eyes. 

"Yes, it's you," he responded, his voice gravelly in his tired state. "It's always been you."

The vision of Enjolras frowned, eyes growing wide as Grantaire took the candle from his other hand and dropped it to the floor. 

A flash of light flooded the room, and Grantaire felt the side of his face against the floor retroactively as he collapsed. He heard footsteps around him, words he didn't understand. When a pair of arms tried to pull him up, he resisted, struggling against their grasp. Briefly, he felt them let go, but then he felt them again, the restraining grip renewed in some intense, superhuman strength, rending him immobile as he was carried from the building. 

Grantaire coughed as he felt the cold pavement beneath him, expelling into the night air what smoke he had inhaled. 

"You're insane, do you know that?"

He looked up to see Enjolras, very real indeed, glaring at him in an annoyed expression. Behind him, he could hear alarm bells ringing, voices shouting as the fire brigade rushed to the scene. Enjolras must have carried him a ways, the galley no longer in view from the narrow alleyway.

"It is you," he breathed, a smile forming on his lips. "It worked; I knew if I got rid of the paintings, you would come."

"I was already there," Enjolras responded quite pointedly. "You just set fire to your entire gallery."

Grantaire's eyes widened. He sat up in a sober expression, looking back to see the cloud of smoke rising in the distance. "Oh."

"Yes."

He frowned, looking to Enjolras, who was perfect, not a hair out of place; his red coat replaced by one of somber black. "How have you come here?"

"I think we should get you inside," replied Enjolras.

***

Grantaire awoke on Christmas morning in a daze. In the space between the window's dark curtains, a soft white sky broke through, snowy rooftops quietly peeking into view. The peaceful winter sunlight crept into the dark room, a feathery sheen cascading along wrinkles in the silken bedclothes, removing shadows from the canopy. That night he had the strangest dream--he tried to set fire to his paintings, and Enjolras? Enjolras was there, carried him to safety. But now, here he was, spending Christmas alone in his bed. He stretched and rolled over, closed his eyes. 

He opened them. Because before Grantaire lie a living marble statue, his dark eyelashes in relief against his pale skin, a calm expression as he slept, delicate and pure. 

_What happened last night?_

They were both at least clothed, so that was a relief. As far as he could remember, he hadn't been drinking, so what did he--

"Good morning."

Grantaire nearly jumped at the low, melodic voice. How, as he was staring at Enjolras so intently, was it that he didn't even notice him wake?

"Enjolras," he said, his voice a low mumble. His throat felt parched, rocks in his vocal cords. 

The other man frowned, returning a look of concern.

"What's wrong?" asked Grantaire. 

"I was about to ask you the same," replied Enjolras. "Are you cold?"

"No."

"You're shivering."

Grantaire had no answer to that, surprised at his own failure to notice his own physical state. Without further prompting, Enjolras stirred, slowly rising from the bed. _He's borrowed my nightclothes_. Grantaire stayed put, and minutes later, a fire burned in the hearth across the room. He felt a cool hand on his arm and he shuddered at the icy touch. Suddenly, he opened his eyes as he felt Enjolras wrap him in a warm blanket and carry him before the fire. 

As he sat there, clutching the corners of the fabric, and basking in the warmth of the fireplace, Grantaire watched as Enjolras sat beside him, coincidentally on a deerskin rug, a gift from Grantaire's father's many hunting trips. His parents had always hoped if they just gave him enough resources, he would do what they wanted: find a stable job, settle down, have a family. When he reached critical success, and he no longer needed their money, they began to send other things. But that hardly had an effect, and now Enjolras was sitting on the rug with one hand leisurely draped over his knee, the picture of youth and virility, forever frozen in time. With the loose sleeves of his shirt rolled past his elbows, his scars were like artful tattoos, markings on his pale skin from the adventures of his past. 

Grantaire was more awake now. "You came back," he said. "Why did you come back?"

"I don't know," replied Enjolras. "I suppose it was an alternative to being sent to prison in Siberia."

"Siberia," repeated Grantare, but Enjolras offered no explanation. They sat in silence another moment.

"You saved me," said Grantaire, some color returning to his cheeks. "Last night. You carried me out of the gallery?"

Enjolras blinked in understanding. "Yes."

"I'm sorry," Grantaire said, glancing away sheepishly. "I'm not sure how that happened. I wasn't myself last night."

"I know." His voice was light, free of judgement. "I still remember what you said about Boticelli."

Grantaire's mind moved slowly, as though it was still unthawing with the rest of his body. "What?"

"The bonfire of the vanities?" continued Enjolras. "You said it would be ridiculous for an artist to destroy his own work like that." 

"Oh," replied Grantaire, vaguely remembering their conversation from years ago. "Right." He tried to remember the events of last night, after they reached the house. "Did you...climb into bed with me?"

"You asked me to."

He remembered now. Leading Enjolras to his house, offering a bath and change of clothes to remove the soot. They were gentlemanly and took turns, but a need for personal space clearly wasn't the issue when Grantaire asked Enjolras if he wouldn't mind staying with him, that his house may be grand and impressive but lonely. That if Enjolras wasn't there when he woke up, he would think it were all a dream. 

"Where have you been?" he thought to ask, as though it hadn't been on his mind the entire time. 

Enjolras stared calmly into the fire. "Russia."

"Right." Grantaire inhaled a sigh. "I'm sorry for my...lack of decorum. Perhaps it would be more appropriate if we adjourned downstairs for some tea."

Enjolras opened his mouth just slightly, but arrested whatever comment he intended to make and gave a nod.

***

"Make yourself at home," Grantaire announced as they entered his sitting room. 

"Thank you," said Enjolras, taking to one of the ornate sofas. He sat down and leaned back, crossing one leg over another as he comfortably draped an arm over the back of it, and Grantaire tried to distract himself from how natural it looked, having Enjolras reclining in his sitting room, wearing pyjamas that matched his own. Grantaire had thrown on a velvet robe to keep warm, but Enjolras lacked this requirement, and his collarbones were peeking through the collar of the loose shirt. Trying to remember his task, Grantaire turned towards the kitchen, but quickly paused when he heard Enjolras speak up again. 

"_Chai s saharom i slivkami pojaluysta_\--I mean, with sugar and...what's it called..." He touched his brow as he struggled to recall the word. "_Slivkami_..."

"Cream and sugar?" suggested Grantaire, much to Enjolras' relief. "It's no trouble. I think I still remember how you like it." A blush suddenly tinted his cheeks. "I hope it's not too strange, I still remember after all these years."

Enjolras gave no response. Grantaire smiled awkwardly, nodding a few times before disappearing into the other room. When he returned, Enjolras had seen to the fireplace, as he was standing up from it, dusting off his hands from the now crackling logs. 

Grantaire set the tray down on the coffee table. "Louison, she's my sort of cook and maid, she made some Christmas cookies for us. Well, for me, I suppose. She didn't know I would have company."

Enjolras returned to his seat, and Grantaire held out a steaming cup of tea. "Thank you," he said, leaning forward to take the cup from him with care. Grantaire watched as he took a sip, and upon realising this, Enjolras gave a nod in approval of the tea. 

Grantaire took a seat in the adjacent chair, taking his own tea in his lap. "I imagine you have much to share. You were in Russia?"

"Yes." Enjolras didn't look up as he drank his tea. "I've been expulsed for 'attempting to incite a _revolutsia_\--a revolution,'" he corrected himself. 

"Revolution?" remarked Grantaire in confusion and amazement. "You were involved in the politics there?"

His expression was bitter. "There's not much to say about it at this point. The monarchy is corrupt, illiteracy is rampant, workers have no rights, but what else is new. I suppose you're wondering how I found you, why I'm here," said Enjolras, and Grantaire couldn't admit otherwise. 

"I suppose I could ask why now, when I didn't know if I would see you again."

"It was your friend," explained Enjolras. "Eponine."

"Eponine? You've seen her?" Grantaire leaned in, nearly spilling his tea on the arm of the chair, tea which he had hardly sipped at this point.

"Yes." Enjolras raised an eyebrow. "As for how we met, it were rather unusual circumstances."

***

_I was staying at an inn in Krakow, having just left Russia with another revolutionary acquaintance of mine. The plan was to connect with his distant Polish relatives to stay with for the time being. I was sat at a table, having finished supper and waiting for him to return. I spoke no Polish, you see, although Russian is...similar. It was then I overheard someone speaking English, which I had not heard for some time. _

"I was supposed to meet someone here? All I was supposed to do was give you their name, and you should know what to do!"

Enjolras lifted his head up as the woman began to raise her voice in frustration. She was dressed warmly, although her coat patched in places. He could hear a slight French accent in her voice. She folded her arms in exasperation at the innkeeper, who clearly did not understand her. 

Enjolras sat still in his chair. His acquaintance had suggested they lay low for awhile until they could reconnect with his family, and not to say Enjolras had grown impatient, but this woman was clearly in need of help. He rose, abandoning his drink of woefully watered-down beer to approach her as she indignantly listened to the innkeeper, just as confused as she, speaking in Polish.

"Excuse me," Enjolras said tentatively, "Are you lost?"

She swiveled her head over in annoyance, but her eyes lit up immediately upon seeing him. 

"Montparnasse!"

Enjolras blinked with surprise as the woman threw her arms around him, and he soon found her clutching at the sides of his face. 

"I never thought I'd be so glad to see you again," she breathed. He could sense her relief, although this quickly began to fade. "You do remember me, don't you?"

He looked back at her, studying her features in the dim light. "Eponine?"

***

"You recognised her," remarked Grantaire. 

"Yes." Enjolras held the cup of tea in his lap. "From your paintings. It's a miracle that I remembered her name, even."

Grantaire frowned. "Montparnasse...I've definitely heard her mention him. He's in the gang that her family has the misfortune of associating with. The family _she_ has the misfortune of being related to," he clarified. "But I don't know if they were close, her and Montparnasse."

He looked to Enjolras, who was characteristically silent. 

"Were they close?" asked Grantaire.

***

Eponine raised on her feet, leaning in towards him, her eyes darting fearfully around the room. "Is there a way we could talk in private?" she asked, her brow furrowed.

"Alright," he answered, unsure what to expect.

They adjourned to his room upstairs, a rather Spartan setup with a couple small beds, a table, lamp. 

"I'm so glad to see you again," she reiterated, quickly closing the door behind him. "The last time I visited London, no one had seen you, said you had skipped town a couple years before."

"Yes, I left town," he answered flatly, with nothing else to corroborate the statement. He sat down on one of the beds and she quickly sat beside him, quite near. 

"It's quite fortunate that I ran into you," she said, her lips forming a smile; he couldn't tell how forced. "You were right; I am lost and alone in this country; my parents sent me to meet someone with little information to go off of, and I don't speak a word of Polish, or German for that matter. But you'll help me, won't you?"

"Of course, for a friend in need--"

He nearly jumped as she put a hand on his thigh. Quickly, he shifted away from her.

"Montparnasse," she laughed in confusion, "You're so shy all of a sudden."

Enjolras looked deeply uncomfortable. "I apologise; perhaps you'll find it strange, but this is the closest I've ever been to a woman."

Eponine gave the deepest, most bellowing laugh Enjolras ever thought possible from someone of her stature. "Exactly what brain injury have you suffered?" she cried. "Have you forgotten entirely those years we spent? Why, do you have any other reason to ascribe to the bite mark on your shoulder?"

***

"No," breathed Grantaire in amazement.

Enjolras nodded. He lifted his shoulder, and Grantaire shook his head. 

"No," he repeated, covering his eyes with one hand. "I don't want to see it."

***

As they sat on the bed, Enjolras' eyes widened as he traced to the spot where Eponine was pointing. He carefully pulled at his collar to expose the skin, a scar on his shoulder, the perfect size to be an indent from human teeth. 

"That," she remarked in satisfaction. "I remember you were quite upset with me over it. I wasn't sure you would let me live." 

He sensed the remark was a joke, but there was a certain apprehension to accompany it. She was close to this man, a known killer? Enjolras didn't know where to begin to explain what had happened, if he should explain at all, when--

"What are those?" 

"What?"

She frowned, pointing to his chest. As he had opened his shirt, one of his knife wounds was visible, the old stitches still holding it together. Enjolras was more prepared as Eponine reached toward him again and gently touched the side of his face.

"You're cold," she said, her voice a mixture of concern and fright. 

"Eponine," breathed Enjolras, and she was at her full attention, "I'm only telling you this because it seems that we were close before...from before. Can you promise to keep it a secret?"

"Alright," said Eponine. "Go on, then."

He breathed a tense sigh. "I'm dead. My name is Enjolras, and I don't remember anything of my past life."

Eponine spat laughter in his face. "You can't be serious. How can you be dead?"

Enjolras continued. "The man you knew, Montparnasse if that's his name, he died several years ago. I'm just a soul inhabiting his body--or maybe I'm him, and I don't remember. But look," he said, pulling his shirt back further to show the other marks. 

She glanced over them skeptically. "How can you say you don't remember? You recognised me."

"I saw you in a painting," said Enjolras. "One of Grantaire's."

"A painting?" Eponine's face fell. "You knew Grantaire?"

***

"And what did you say?" asked the artist.

"I told her the truth." Enjolras held a grave expression. "I felt that she had a right to know what happened to Montparnasse. As far as you bringing me back to life, I mean."

Grantaire looked visibly relieved. "I suppose that's fair."

Enjolras gave a look of confusion, apparently noticing too much. "Oh."

Grantaire sent him a glance, quickly taking it back. "Sorry, I don't know why I thought that--"

"Of course I wouldn't tell her about...about us," said Enjolras. "Are you ashamed of what happened between us?"

"No!" 

Enjolras was shocked by the outburst. Grantaire's face turned red, and he struggled to explain himself. "No, I greatly enjoyed--it was good, what happened between us. And I would again if--I'm sorry," he concluded.

To that, Enjolras just calmly stared back. "Was that an offer?"

Grantaire straightened, his posture. "Well, yes. I suppose it is."

Enjolras promptly set his tea on the table, leaving it clattering as he stood up. Grantaire rose with him, and they found their way towards each other. Their forearms hesitantly overlapped, and then more familiar touches were exchanged on waists, shoulders, faces. 

"You want this?" Grantaire asked once more, caressing Enjolras' cheek with the back of his hand.

Enjolras nodded. He leaned in, and it was then Grantaire realised, standing beneath the waterfall, just how his thirst had grown. As their lips drank each other in, the familiar intoxication taking hold, Grantaire pulled him closer, and he felt those cool hands gently tugging at his clothes, freeing him from them.

***

It was some time later that Grantaire collapsed onto his back, breathing hard. Enjolras lie beside him in his bed, his eyes closed, but his expression serene, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. The two of them lied there peacefully for a few minutes. A fire roared in the fireplace, and the room was sufficiently warm.

"That night I met Eponine..."

Grantaire lifted his gaze at the sound of Enjolras' voice.

"I asked about you," he continued. Grantaire turned to see him staring up at the ceiling in thought. "She said you had just gotten engaged."

"Oh, that?" Grantaire exhaled. "That was years ago, and only temporary. I was merely trying to appease my parents. We broke it off shortly after."

Enjolras nodded slowly. "When I came to your gallery last night, I saw her outside. She was holding her child. And I thought--"

"Christ," breathed Grantaire. 

"Yes."

Enjolras slowly turned towards him, and their eyes met. "I wanted to be happy for you. I was, really."

He must have seen the look of horror across Grantaire's face, quickly adding, "And then I saw a young gentleman come up the steps to greet her. When I approached them, she introduced him as her husband."

"Marius," Grantaire supplied. "They married some years ago; they have a son now." 

"I figured as much."

Their eyes met once more, and it was though the pressure had burst, and they both burst into laughter.

"I said I was happy for you, but I'm so glad you're not," said Enjolras. 

"Thank God." Grantaire wiped a tear from his cheek. "And how did you get into the gallery, then? She let you in?" 

Enjolras gave a nod. "I said I was visiting, and just wanted to go inside for a few minutes. In some small miracle she recognised me as your old assistant, and let me in. I was supposed to lock up after her. I still have the keys, by the way."

"Keep them." 

Grantaire moved closer, and Enjolras watched from where he lay propped up on his elbows, letting him lay his head on his chest. Enjolras lay down and ran a hand through Grantaire's dark curls, and Grantaire gently traced the scars on his chest. "You finally got these sewed up."

"What? Oh, that was a while ago," remarked Enjolras. His voice was soft, but Grantaire could hear the vibrations in his chest as he spoke. "Believe it or not, I encountered one of your friends on my way out of town. Combeferre."

Grantaire raised his eyebrows in surprise. "What? He never said anything about that."

"I made him promise not to say anything. But I think meeting me was the reason he left his expedition. He was set to go to the Antarctic, got off at the next port."

"Really." Grantaire pondered that. "I suppose then it makes sense why he returned so quickly. He came right to my studio and asked for his equipment back. And then we found out the expedition went missing; no one's heard of them since."

"Huh," breathed Enjolras.

"Do you know what that means?" said Grantaire, lifting his head with wide eyes. "You saved his life."

Enjolras shrugged. "I suppose you could argue it that way."

They shared silence for a moment, Grantaire enjoying the softness of his skin, Enjolras' fingers in his hair. 

"Grantaire?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you remember the first night we shared together, when you said there were other men I could lie with, and I said you could be my first?"

"How could I forget?"

Enjolras paused in thought before asking, "Have you shared with anyone since? Your body, that is."

"Yes, unfortunately." Grantaire exhaled a sigh. "A small disaster or two. But let's not talk of them."

"Fair enough."

Grantaire frowned. "Why, have you?"

"Yes." 

The artist lifted his head and their eyes met. 

"Does that bother you?" asked Enjolras. 

"No, it just surprises me that--I mean of course. Of course you should seek company."

"Yes," said Enjolras. "Although 'disaster' is probably apt."

Grantaire breathed laughter. "Tell me, then, if you would."

Enjolras smiled to him, but it faded as he recounted the story. "I never explained to him my condition, and he never asked. We quite left on awkward terms; I was meant to see his family--ah," he clenched his teeth in discomfort at the thought. "It's for the best that we have few countries between us now."

"Oh, is that why you returned?" teased Grantaire, running fingers along Enjolras' chest. "You needed me after facing rejection?"

"That wasn't my plan," replied Enjolras, surprised by the idea. "Remember, I thought you married Cosette. I just wanted to get my mind off of things, and I thought, since you were doing so well, and Eponine said you were opening a gallery...I wanted to see you doing well."

"And what do you think of me now?" Grantaire glanced up at him, a cheeky grin still etched on his face.

Enjolras looked amused, studying him carefully. "I need some time to decide. But for now, I'll be keeping a close eye on you."

Grantaire laid his head on Enjolras' chest, still smiling. It was in that moment, he heard a faint ringing of a bell coming from downstairs.

"What was that?" mused Enjorlas as Grantaire sat up. 

"It sounded like the front door," Grantaire mumbled. "Go away." 

They waited for Grantaire's wish to come true, but instead the bell sounded again, this time more aggressively, several rings in succession.

Grantaire pulled himself to his feet and threw on a robe. He traversed the room to the window, which opened to a Juliet balcony, coincidentally on the front of the house. To his surprise, he saw Eponine standing out in the cold, her arms crossed. 

"Grantaire!" she called. "Come down here and answer the bloody door!"

***

"Grantaire!" Eponine breathed as she burst through his front door, hastily unwrapping her scarf from her neck. "I was just at the Pontmercys'. You didn't tell me that Marius got _married_?!"

"Didn't I mention that in my letter?" he said in a small voice, wincing as her scarf whipped past him and she laid it on a coat hook. 

Eponine stopped to glare at him, both hands on her hips. "_No_."

Grantaire smiled apologetically.

"You wouldn't believe it. This whole plan I had to proclaim my love to him." She moved past him, shedding her coat and gloves. "I was wondering if I could stay with you, seeing as my family's, well, my family, and I figured you didn't have much else to do--oh," she said, noticing the living room. A fire still burned in the fireplace, two half-empty cups of tea and plates of cookies were sat out. "I'm sorry, do you have company over?"

"Yes, actually," said Grantaire, trying to discreetly pick up the discarded clothing items before she could recognise what they meant. 

"That's right, Enjolras said he was going to see you. Although I don't think I gave him your address," Eponine pondered as she warmed her hands by the fire. 

"Yes, he came by the gallery last night," explained Grantaire, relieved that he didn't have to explain anything else. "He's just upstairs, he's--" _Ill? Fatigued?_ "He's just upstairs," he repeated, deciding it not worth it to come up with a lie. "I'll go fetch him."

Eponine gave a nod, and Grantaire returned upstairs, where Enjolras was sitting up, waiting for him. 

"Eponine is here, if you would like to come down and visit," 

"I apologise," said Enjolras as Grantaire approached him. "I meant to tell you she planned to stop by later; I just didn't know when--"

"Merry Christmas!" Eponine called upon entering the room. "Enjolras, I have to tell you about--"

She paused halfway across the room when she saw the two of them, Enjolras covered by little other than a bedsheet, Grantaire's robe beginning to fall open, his hands quickly holding it closed. Her look of surprise turned to delight, however. 

"Oh, _this_ is what you meant when you said you had company!" 

Grantaire's face turned another shade of red. "Eponine, you didn't have to follow me in here--"

"Oh, calm down, I've always known that you prefer cock," said Eponine without further provocation, rolling her eyes. She moved towards the bed and flipped over to collapse on the foot of it, her black hair spilling out over the covers. "And you can stop acting so modest," she said, pointing to Enjolras, who was surreptiously trying to dress himself. "It's not like I haven't seen you naked dozens of times."

Enjolras said nothing at that, pausing before continuing to throw on a shirt. 

"Forgive my friend," Grantaire said to him, "She's very French and doesn't have the decorum of a proper English lady," he said, giving her a playful shove. 

Eponine just laughed. "I'm glad you two finally got together," she teased. She looked to Enjolras. "I was worried that little prick of his was going to fall off from unuse. Now come here, R, so I can tell you what happened with Marius."

Grantaire gave a visible sigh, but moved to retake his place next to Enjolras on the bed. Eponine knew how to annoy him, but he was truly glad to see his friend. And Enjolras seemed remarkably unbothered by their guest, did he laugh even at the words, "little prick"? 

Grantaire relaxed back against the comforting pillows on his bed. "Alright, tell us about your broken heart."

"So, Marius..." began Eponine, "I've been in love with him from the first time I saw him, when he came to stay at my parents' inn."

"Was that before it closed down?" Grantaire asked helpfully with a smirk.

"Well, obviously," said Eponine, shooting him a glare. "He went away in the military. I hadn't seen him in years until I chanced upon him in Germany. Remember, I wrote to you, saying I was hopelessly in love?"

"I didn't know it was _him_ you meant! In fact, I don't remember you mentioning his name in your letter; you may as well have put 'Sir Sparkly Eyes'."

Eponine folded her arms in a huff. "Well, anyways. I went to visit him, I thought it perfect. Christmas, you know? And his wife answers the door, none other than Cosette, my friend from childhood!"

Grantaire frowned. "How do you know Cosette? Didn't you grow up in France?" 

"Yes!" she exclaimed. "We played in the street outside her home in Provence during the summer. Oh, and she's beautiful now. I'm nothing to compete with her. You should have married her when you had the chance."

"I had plenty of chances," Grantaire replied with a shrug. "You know I'm married to my work."

"You could have been married to both," remarked Eponine. "And then she wouldn't have fallen in love with Marius."

"She would have left me for him," said Grantaire, and Eponine didn't seem to appreciate his satisfactory grin. 

"But by then he would have been married to me!"

"Eponine," said Grantaire, taking her hand in the most comforting manner possible, "accept the loss and move on."

Eponine was hardly comforted. 

"You'll find someone else," Enjolras gently added.

"Thanks," she replied flatly.

In that moment of silence, a tiny noise erupted as Grantaire's stomach growled.

"Are you hungry?" asked Enjolras. "I suppose we haven't eaten all morning."

"You haven't eaten yet?!" interjected Eponine.

"We were...otherwise occupied," Grantaire remarked sheepishly.

"Oh, that's right," replied Eponine, rolling her eyes with a grin. She jumped up from the bed. "Let's go down to the kitchen, then. Please tell me you have something to eat this time."

"I'm not used to hosting company!" Grantaire defended. "Don't worry, there's definitely something down there if we'll go see. Just give us some time to become decent first!"

Eponine laughed. She stood up from the bed. "I'll leave you to it, then."

***

Grantaire and Enjolras now more properly dressed, the three of them entered the kitchen to find a series of notes on the table. 

"Look," said Grantaire, picking one up. "Louison left instructions on how to prepare a roast goose. Bless her."

"Oh, good," said Eponine, breathing an audible sigh of relief. "So we haven't to rely on your competence alone."

"Oh, hush," said Grantaire, studying the list. "'Turn on the gas range until the oven temperature reads 230C.'" He looked around and spied the oven, studying it carefully.

"Have you even been in this room before?" Eponine asked doubtfully.

"Yes," Grantaire answered pointedly. "Just...I think it's this? We need a match to light it."

With his directions, Enjolras found some matches in a drawer and they successfully lit the gas range. Grantaire read the next instructions, "Remove the bird from the icebox and dress with bacon, rest on the middle rack with the pan underneath and roast for forty-five minutes." He turned to the icebox, where he struggled to operate the opening mechanism. When he finally did, he looked delighted. "Oh! She's prepared a Christmas pudding as well."

Eponine rolled her eyes. She turned to Enjolras, shaking her head. "I don't think cooking's his specialty."

"That's not true," remarked Enjolras. "There was a time he prepared every meal I ate."

"Really," said Eponine with surprise. Meanwile, Grantaire pulled the goose out of the icebox. "He didn't once inadvertantly poison you?"

"Not at all," replied Enjolras. "Grantaire is a fine cook."

"Looks like it," she said, watching the artist attempt to dress the bird with bacon, getting grease stains on the paper he consulted.

"That was simple food, for poor folk," explained Grantaire. "I have never roasted a goose, or any kind of fowl."

"Oh, you poor thing," Eponine's voice sang. She adopted a pitiful tone. "'Mother and Father only had to snap their fingers and a roast poule would simply appear at their table. I don't know how it got there.'"

Grantaire simply laughed. "You're not too far off."

"But seriously, R," said Eponine, rounding the table to approach him, "Why did you eat, as you put it, 'poor folk's food? The baron couldn't afford to have you eating roast pheasant for every meal?"

"Baron?" Enjolras interrupted. "What baron?"

The two of him glanced to him in surprise, and then Eponine shot Grantaire a judgemental look. "He doesn't know? He's lived with you, and he doesn't know?"

"What is it?" asked Enjolras, still confused.

"Didn't I mention that? Enjolras," said Grantaire, stepping towards him with a sincere expression. "My father is a baron. Quite well-to-do, at that. Luckly, I have an older brother, or I would be set to inherit the title."

Eponine laughed. "Such a pity."

Enjolras was silent, blinking as he stared back at Grantaire. "I knew they were rich, but...they expected you to be frugal?"

"Yes. Well, no." Grantaire frowned. "It's complicated."

"Artists," scoffed Eponine. 

"They sent me a monthly allowance, but to be honest, I detest them. I needed their money to survive, yet how can I simply take their money when I want nothing to do with them? I could only imagine the day where they request back everything they have given me."

Eponine sighed deeply, this time without a trace of irony. "I know what you mean."

Grantaire turned to her and put a somber hand on her shoulder. He pursed his lips before concluding, "I'd rather have my parents than yours."

"Well, to hell with them," said Eponine, flicking a wrist. She swept past him, picking up the instructions from the table. "What's next? Is the oven at temperature yet?"

Once the bird was in the oven, they had some time until it was ready. They boiled some water and had tea, telling stories while waiting for the meal to be ready. On the subject of cooking, Eponine expanded on her own experience. "It was never really my specialty."

"You never had to cook?" Grantaire asked with a sly grin. "I thought you were raised in an inn? Your mother never made you help with that?"

"Not really," remarked Eponine, studying the beds of her nails on one hand. "They quite spoiled me until a certain age. At some point..." her voice faded in thought before she continued, "Well, they started having me go out to fetch water from the well. A nasty business, that. No concern for their daughter is what they had," she scoffed. "One time it was midnight, I was out in the forest, and I swore I saw a ghost."

"Ghost?" remarked Grantaire. "Enjolras, haven't you seen ghosts? When you were, ah, between your existences?"

Enjolras blinked, almost startled by the question. "I suppose so. What was it like?" he asked, turning to Eponine. "Did you see a light?"

"Yes," she replied, surprised to make the connection. "I swore I saw an old man. Scared the living daylights out of me."

"Are you sure it wasn't just that, an old man?" Grantaire replied with a grin, stirring his tea with one hand. 

"I'm quite sure I'm not insane, thank you very much," Eponine answered. "I could have sworn I saw a tree catch fire. The skies were clear, it couldn't have been lightning. And he called my name! I've never been so terrified."

"Was he floating?" asked Enjolras. "The old man?"

"No," she replied, furrowing her brow. "Why would he be floating? He was just standing on the ground, normal as anything."

"He wasn't a ghost, then," Enjolras answered in a very matter-of-fact tone. "Ghosts all float about two, three feet off the ground."

"Really?" Eponine rolled her eyes with a grin. "You really know what ghosts look like, then?"

"He does," said Grantaire. Enjolras nodded.

Eponine's face fell in thought.

***

Together, they were able to produce a roast Christmas goose, nearly burning it if it hadn't been for Enjolras. At the sound of church bells in the distance, he remarked, "Shouldn't the timer have gone off by now?" and they discovered it had never been set. Now they sat in the dining room, enjoying the fruits of their labour. 

"So the both of you traveled here together?" asked Grantaire, speaking through a mouthful. "How was that?"

"What do you mean to say?" remarked Eponine, but Enjolras just smiled. 

"Eponine makes for an entertaining travel companion, to say the least," he explained. "Well, I suppose it made all the difference that you knew me from before."

Eponine threw her head back and laughed. "Oh, Montparnasse? You're so far removed from him; beyond our initial acquaintance, I could hardly confuse you for him, Enjolras."

"You haven't told me much about him," said Enjolras, leaning on his elbow towards her with vague interest. "How long had you know each other?"

Grantaire raised his eyebrows, equally interested. They both turned to her, and she was silent for a moment, formulating her response.

"He was in a gang called the Patron-Minette. Also of French descent, although I doubt he hardly spoke a word of it. He was another street rat, turned out of his house about fifteen, which is when I met him. My father was involved in some of their heists, let them stay at our inn--when it was still open," she added, giving Grantaire a quick glance, "but not without asking rent of course. I suppose we grew close because we were closest in age." She grimaced. "He was always a violent sort, he had killed several people before he was even of age. No witnesses, that sort of thing."

Enjolras frowned. "If he was so frightening, why would you remain close with him? When you met me in Krakow, you seemed so pleased to see me."

Eponine seemed unnerved by that, her gaze unfocused as though she were about to slip out of her chair. "Yes," she breathed, pursing her lips. "I was glad to see a familiar face, but beyond that...I'd rather not talk about it."

"That's fair," remarked Grantaire. "I wouldn't trouble you over something that makes you uncomfortable. Although--" he paused and turned to Enjolras,"I'm sorry. You wished to know where you came from before you died. I know that's what you wrote about in your letter."

The other man passed him a glance in confusion. "What letter?"

"The one you wrote before you left," said Grantaire. His eyes widened when Enjolras didn't make the connection. "Don't you remember? Here, I still keep it with me."

Eponine was lost in thought, but Enjolras watched silently as Grantaire stood, making his way to the coat rack in the foyer. After rooting around in the breast pocket of his coat, he retrieved the letter and brought it to Enjolras. The paper's edges were worn, nearly falling apart into squares along the lines it had been folded.

Enjolras blinked in surprise. "This? You kept it all this time?"

"Of course," replied Grantaire, still standing over him. Resting a hand on the back of his chair, he watched Enjolras skim over the letter. "Here, I never understood what you meant by it," he interjected, pointing to the last paragraph. "'_You've said it before: you made me and I will always be yours_.' When did I ever say that?"

"It was about your art," Enjolras answered simply. Despite not remembering the letter, clearly he had written it. "You said that no matter where it goes or who owns it, it has your name in every brushstroke."

Grantaire furrowed his brow with an amused smile. "But you're not a painting, Enjolras. You're your own person."

Enjolras paused, looking up at him with a blank expression. It hardened into a certain form of sincerity when he said, "Marry me."

Grantaire's eyes traced his face, his own mouth hung slightly in surprise. Finally, he laughed. "What an entertaining idea. If only we could get married."

"We could. Maybe not through the church, but we would know, and we would know what it means." He took Grantaire's hand, and Grantaire smiled, unable to keep his gaze. "Let me do this," Enjolras continued. "Let me do this one thing and marry you."

"I like the idea, strange as it is," replied Grantaire, hardly keeping his composure. His hand was beginning to sweat, and he felt it might slip out of Enjolras' grasp at any moment. "Where did you learn this, in Russia?"

Enjolras gave a cool smile. "No. A better answer would be because I left Russia."

Grantaire held onto his hand with both of his own, ensuring a solid grip. "But who would marry us? As you said, no priest would be willing to sponsor it."

"Eponine could do it," said Enjolras, sending a quick glance her direction. "She could be the witness. Why not?"

Grantaire dropped his head in a fit of giggles. Finally, he looked to Eponine, who was watching them, silently entertained. "Would you do it?" he asked.

With a grin, she folded her arms and slowly shook her head.

"No?" Grantaire looked concerned.

"I can't believe you two," she said. "Of course I'll do it."

***

"Here," said Grantaire, dumping a small wooden lockbox on the dining room table. He laid it open. "This is all the jewelry I have. I suppose we could find a suitable pair of rings."

"Oh, lovely!" cried Eponine, quickly poking her nose inside before Enjolras lifted a hand. She pulled out a gaudy multicolored ring, seven stones in the shape of a flower. "Look at this!"

"Oh that?" remarked Grantaire. "My mother got that for me to give to--to she who shall not be named. My betrothed. It's a DEAREST ring, see, the center is a diamond, and to spell out the word the stones are an Emerald, Amethyst, Ruby--"

"I know what it is," Eponine cut him off, waving her wrist. She tried it on her hand and admired it. "I've always dreamed of having a handsome man give me one of these in courtship."

"You can keep it," Grantaire said, picking a few other rings out of the box. 

"Really?" she said, her eyes lighting up as she held the ring close to her chest. 

"Sure. In fact, anything else you want, you can take." 

As Eponine began to eagerly dig through the jewelry box, Grantaire laid the rest of the rings out on the tablecloth for Enjolras to see. "What do you think?"

"Hmm..." his hand hovered over the selection, picking up a silver ring with a small turquoise stone. He smiled. "It reminds me of your eyes."

Grantaire blinked, suddenly speechless as Enjolras held it up.

"Which would you pick?" asked Enjolras. 

"Oh." Grantaire's eyes fluttered as he glanced over the lot. "I'll take this one," he said, picking up a simple gold band.

"Are you two quite finished?" asked Eponine, her wrists now clinking with bracelets, a couple necklaces around her neck. 

The three of them gathered in the living room as the sun was beginning to set. 

Eponine was quiet as she studied the lines in the Catholic Catechism, of which Grantaire somehow managed to find a copy in his study. "'I take you to be my wife or'...which of you is the husband and which one the wife?" she asked. 

Grantaire and Enjolras looked to each other. "I suppose, can't we both be husbands?" asked Enjolras.

Eponine frowned in consideration. "I don't see why not. Then who wants to go first?"

"I'll go!" Grantaire exclaimed, then quickly bit his lip, trying to quell his excitement. He glanced to Enjolras, who simply smiled. "Um, I suppose we..." 

Grantaire took Enjolras' hands as they stood before the fireplace. Eponine stood next to them, holding up the book. 

"We are gathered here to witness these two souls..." she flipped a few pages, "Let's just do it this way. Grantaire, repeat, 'I, Grantaire.'"

"I, Grantaire," he said, his eyes glancing up to Enjolras'. The man looked calm and serene, the side of his face glowing in the firelight. Eponine read the rest of the verse, and Grantaire repeated it: "I, Grantaire, take you, Enjolras, to be my husband. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honour you all the days of my life."

Enjolras repeated the same, but paused when he reached the end of the last sentence. "Huh."

"What is it, Dear?" asked Grantaire. 

"But I'm already dead," replied Enjolras. He frowned, contemplating the sentence. He then repeated, "I will love and honour you all the days of my life...and death."

Grantaire breathed a smile. "And I as well. I will love and honour you through life and death."

A smile bloomed on Enjolras' face. "Yes."

They took a moment to exchange rings. Grantaire felt a chill of excitement as he slid the silver ring onto Enjolras' hand. 

"Then by the powers vested in me--" Eponine paused, unable to stop herself from laughing at the statement. 

"Come on, Eponine," said Grantaire with a grin. "You must keep it together. This is serious."

"Alright," she said, taking a deep breath and smoothing the wrinkles in her skirt before resuming her line from the book. "By the powers vested in me, I now pronounce you husband, and, well, husband."

Grantaire already had his left hand, now newly equipped with a gold ring, caressing the side of Enjolras' face. He turned his neck toward Eponine. "What do we do? Do we kiss?"

Eponine shrugged. "I don't know. Do you?"

Grantaire turned back to Enjolras. 

"I think so," spoke Enjolras conclusively. 

"Very well, then," replied Grantaire, their eyes trained on each other. They slowly moved in and their lips met, simple at first, but it quickly deepened as he felt Enjolras' arms tighten around him, and he reciprocating by clutching at the back of Enjolras' hair. Their kiss was tender, passionate, everlasting. 

***

A warm fire smoldered in the fireplace as Grantaire laid on the sofa with his head on the lap of Enjolras, who read a book by candlelight. Eponine was in the other room playing the piano, or "I can't promise anything good, but I'll make an attempt" as she called it.

Grantaire glanced up at his husband, studying him fondly. "Have I ever told you you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he remarked.

Enjolras smirked. "No, but I could have guessed by the look on your face."

"My nerves betray me then," said the artist, taking Enjolras' wrist and gently pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "Although it's nothing new. I think the same time each time I see you. And you haven't changed a bit in all these years."

"You have," remarked Enjolras, setting his book aside. His hand graced the side of Grantaire's chin. "Tiny creases are beginning to form at the corners of your eyes. I would hope to deepen them by the amount of times I can make you smile."

This had the intended effect on Grantaire's lips, and Enjolras was satisfied. 

Grantaire reached up to brush a stray curl from Enjolras' face. His brow furrowed with more concern. "Am I to age without you?"

"Yes." Enjolras lowered himself, bringing their faces closer, a gentle smile on his lips as he studied Grantaire with endearment. "Are you concerned about your looks? I assure you, it makes no difference to me."

This did nothing to soothe Grantaire, who frowned with increasing worry. "Eponine!"

The piano music ceased and footsteps echoed in the foyer as Eponine came into the room. "Did you call me?"

"Yes," said Grantaire, sitting up. "You said you had seen a ghost before, in the woods outside of town."

"Don't remind me of it," she spoke, half the corner of her lip upturned in a sly gesture. "Why, do you not still believe me?"

"Oh, I believe you," said Grantaire in the most grave tone. "Do you remember where it happened, exactly? Can you take us there?"

***

It was dark as Grantaire traversed the forest, latching onto Enjolras' arm with an intent expression set on his face. He shivered in the cold, but Enjolras was calm as always.

"You need to know exactly where it happened?" asked Eponine, leading in front of them with a lantern. 

"You said a tree caught fire," said Grantaire. "Perhaps we can look for the scorch marks."

"Yes, but they were gone as soon as they--" she paused, stopping to look at the stump of a large tree, isolated in the middle of a small clearing ahead of them. "That's it."

"You're sure?" said Grantaire, lifting an eyebrow skeptically. 

Eponine stared ahead, nodding slowly. 

The three of them approached them, and sure enough, under the snow, the bare tree carried burn marks. Enjolras ran a hand down the large split in the middle. 

Under his arm, Grantaire had been carrying a folded up blanket. "Eponine, take this," he said, and she reached out to take it from him without waiting for an explanation. 

"Are you cold?" asked Enjolras, placing a hand on Grantaire's shoulder. "We shouldn't be out here. We should be getting home now."

"And we will, I hope," said Grantaire, reaching a hand out to gently caress Enjolras' face. "When the time comes, I need you to place my hands on the tree. Can you do that?"

"What are you talking about?" asked Enjolras. "When the time comes for what?"

"I love you," said Grantaire.

Enjorlas stared back at him, ultimately confused. "I love you, too," he answered.

A smile flitted past the corners of Grantaire's lips, but his gaze broke with Enjolras. "What's that?" he said, pointing in the distance. "Is that a deer?"

"Where?" said Enjolras, turning his head. Eponine caught interest, too. 

"There, by that boulder," said Grantaire. "Don't you see that? I could have sworn I saw someone..."

***

Enjolras took a few steps towards the edge of the clearing, turning his back from Grantaire. "No, I don't see anyone; I'm pretty sure we're alone--"

He froze as he turned to face Eponine, who was covering her mouth in shock, her eyes watering. 

"What?" he breathed. "Do you see them?"

She said nothing. It was then that he thought to look back to Grantaire, and he regretted it instantly: the artist's knees buckled, hands clinging to a dagger he had plunged into his stomach. 

"Grantaire!"

Enjolras ran to him and clutched him by the shoulders, his husband's blood seeping into the snow beneath them. Grantaire's lips quivered, and his eyes were closed tightly, grasping at whatever ounces of life remained in him, escaping with the blood that left his self-inflicted knife wound. Eponine stood over them, watching silently in horror as she held a lantern, the only source of light besides beyond the distant treetops, a full moon in the sky. 

"Why would you do this?" Enjolras whispered in a hushed anger. He closed his eyes tightly. "I think I know why, but you can't have been sure it would work?"

Grantaire was almost gone, but he had enough for the words to seep from his lips: "You would never have agreed to it."

With that, blood escaped his mouth, and he became lifeless. 

_He's damn right I wouldn't have agreed to it_. Enjolras nearly began to shake, holding Grantaire's body in his arms. He shot a glance up at Eponine. "We have to do something."

"Do what?" she called back. "What could we possibly do?!"

Enjolras closed his eyes. _Place my hands on the tree_. He grit his teeth. "_Kozyol, ty,_" he muttered. "_Ubyu_."

Suddenly, his eyes lightened at the implication. The irony. He found laughter escaping with his white wisps of breath.

"What?" remarked Eponine, lifting an eyebrow.

She stood by while Enjolras lifted the body, something he imagined to be quite heavy, and carried him towards the tree. Instantly, he felt drops of rain on his back, and the world became dark. He felt around for the trunk in the dark, still carrying Grantaire in his arms, and when he did, he followed the instructions. Grantaire was poised to touch the tree, limp cold hands held out to the bark.

In an instant, Enjolras saw a great flash of light, and fell backwards into the dry earth. 

Dry. There was no rain, there was no snow. Out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras could see the light of a lantern. 

"Eponine?" he called as rounded the corner of the of the tree. 

Instead, he was surprised to see a young girl, her eyes wide as she carried a lantern in one hand and an empty pail in the other. Her mouth fell open as she stared up at him. 

"Oh," he said.

The girl was absolutely frightened, but he felt calm. Without giving her any explanation, he turned and left her, returning to the spot where he had left Grantaire.

Enjolras' knees dug into the earth as he knelt over Grantaire. He stayed like that for some unknowable amount of time, until a white layer of snow covered the ground, and a second lantern approached him.

"It'll take time," Enjolras breathed, surveying the corpse of his lover as Eponine stood over them again. 

The artist's eyes were closed. Enjolras took one of his hands, one finger still bearing the wedding band. 

Enjolras turned his head to Eponine. "When I was reunited from my body, it was hours before I could move in it--"

He was interrupted by a gasp of breath. Enjolras was frozen in fright, and Eponine turned ghastly pale, for once with no witty or offending commentary to offer. 

They watched the reanimated corpse, which was now coughing and gasping for breath. When he opened his eyes, he looked to Enjolras, his irises now matching in a similar shade of crimson. 

"It worked," Eponine said softly.

"Yes," concluded Enjolras, although he undoubtably was not satisfied. He shook his head. "What was he thinking? If I didn't remember my past, how would he think that he would?"

"Well, then," Eponine said, glancing from one to the other. "Ask him!"

"Ask him what?"

"I don't know," she said, becoming impatient from the cold. "Something to see if he remembers you."

Enjolras frowned, looking to the newly undead creature once more. He gathered it in his arms again, and it so fragile, shivering intensely. "Do you remember me?" Enjolras asked. "What is my name?"

Those eyes stared back at him, and Enjolras knew the request had been in vain, as though he were asking an animal to speak. He closed his eyes, feeling tired. Snow began to fall on him, catching his eyelashes. 

"En--Enjolras."

Enjolras blinked, amazed at the sound of his name, wondering how, if anything, that Grantaire had really uttered the word. Glancing up to Eponine, Enjolras knew that her intense stare only confirmed what had happened. 

"Let's get him home," Enjolras decided.

Eponine nodded slowly. She handed him the blanket, which he used to wrap Grantaire. Enjolras shook his head in realisation, that he had planned for this, Grantaire had planned for all this to happen. Enjolras picked him up once more: his body still as it was cocooned in the woolen blanket, his feet dangling over Enjolras' arm. His eyes were closed and his face was serene, his breathing audible but no longer visible in the cold air. 

Enjolras carried him behind Eponine as she led the way out of the forest. Behind them remained a blood-soaked patch of earth, slowly fading into white under the newfallen snow.

THE END

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That marks the end of this story. Although...I left a lot of loose ends so I could be *persuaded* to write an epilogue? Let me know in the comments if you liked the story :)
> 
> Thanks everyone for reading and I wish you happy holidays...may you have an unexpected visit from an old friend!
> 
> [St. Francis of Assisi in Ecstasy](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Francis_of_Assisi_in_Ecstasy_\(Caravaggio\)#/media/File:Saint_Francis_of_Assisi_in_Ecstasy-Caravaggio_\(c.1595\).jpg), Caravaggio c. 1595


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I decided to write a cute epilogue for all the cuties that read my fic ❤❤❤ so here it is. Also, I made a couple edits to the earlier chapters, namely Jehan goes by they/them now (it's MY Victorian fantasy and I'll do what I want), and secondly I took a few bits from this chapter and tacked them on to the first as a bit of a prologue, since it frames the story nicely.

Grantaire saw death and it was absolutely terrifying.

A pale, lifeless corpse was crumpled in a pile on top of the snow that was no longer white. That's right--the earth was red and the sky was black. It almost didn't seem real to him. _Is that really me?_ He thought, staring down at the loose joining of flesh and tendon, unmoving except for the warm arms wrapped around it. Even as he watched from some strange viewpoint several meters displaced, that person that held his corpse, he could feel them. Somehow, from so far away, he could feel them as the man carried him.

There was both a lightning flash and not a lightning flash. When you're dead, time doesn't really matter. It all bleeds together. Grantaire saw other ghosts, ghosts like him, floating listlessly through the air. None of them seemed to notice him because there were so many. Some looked to have died near his time period and some much farther back from history, some from another world entirely. He almost didn't notice as he was pulled to the ground in a suffocating quickness, as though someone had grabbed him by the finger and violently dragged him underwater, that when he came to his senses, he came up gasping for air. 

He tried opening his eyes, but it was too bright. He winced. He heard voices, but they sounded wrong, because although there were two people right in front of him speaking clearly, their voices reached his ears as though they had traveled from another room. He was feeling utterly perplexed until something strange happened--he felt a pair of arms around him and they were the same, it was the same warmth he had felt when he was with the ghosts. He remembered. A question was asked, and he was sure he only heard it in the back of his head: _what is my name?_

"Enjolras," he replied. And suddenly, the voices stopped, and he saw the face of a man in front of him, peering into him so closely. It wasn't that he couldn't see until now, he just hadn't thought to pay attention to what he was seeing. 

The man looked pale, thin blue veins laced beneath his handsome features. Red and black eyes. His hair was a mess, disrupted by the cold wind that was constantly interrupting them. Grantaire was in love.

The man's lips moved, and Grantaire couldn't quite make out what was said. It must have been something good, because the man returned to him, wrapping him in something and picking him up. Grantaire was grateful; he wasn't sure he could move his legs. The man held him close, carrying him through the darkness.

***

_The afterlife is strange_, Grantaire thought as he awoke on smooth, cool sheets. Out the window, the sky was very blue. He slowly sat up, his limbs slowly remembering movement, and saw that the room was spacious and quiet. It looked very similar to his house, but something seemed different. 

A young woman startled upon seeing him. She said something which didn't quite reach him, and to be honest, he felt embarrassed that he hadn't noticed her there, using some sort of feathered instrument to knock dust off the shelves. She was staring at him now with wide eyes, and before he could think of anything to say, she fled the room, leaving him alone, wondering what it was he had done to frighten her. 

Before he had the chance to contemplate further, however, no sooner had he looked up that he saw the most handsome man he had ever laid eyes upon--standing in the doorway. 

An angel in the doorway. _He must be here to greet me._

The angel said something. "Do not be afraid," it might as well have been, since Grantaire couldn't make sense of it. He came towards Grantaire and sat beside him on the bed, and looking upon his face more carefully, he couldn't help but sense that it was familiar. He knew this one.

"Enjolras?"

An expression of supreme elation (or was it relief?) flooded the angel's face, and to his surprise, the angel embraced him. Suddenly, he knew his suspicions were correct because this embrace, he remembered this embrace, the warmth from it. He smiled and held Enjolras more tightly.

When Enjolras pulled away, Grantaire's arms remained tethered to him, which he didn't seem to mind. He turned his head, and Grantaire's gaze followed to the doorway, where stood the young woman from earlier. 

"Can.........us be," Enjolras called to her. Or something like that. Grantaire picked up words at a gradual pace. When the woman didn't move, Enjolras added something else, and she left. 

"She doesn't..... me," said Enjolras, looking into his eyes. ".......thinks I've done....to you. But how......? ...............remember?"

Grantaire just stared back at him, unsure how to respond. 

Enjolras placed a gentle hand upon his. ........alright. .........speak again........time."

Grantaire had no idea what to say. Instead, he did what he felt was right and hugged Enjolras once more. This caught Enjolras by surprise, but he soon returned the embrace, affectionately rubbing his back.

The angel slipped off his shoes (_angels....wear shoes_?) and slid into bed next to him, and Grantaire felt calmer, knowing that he wasn't letting go.

"You've..........three days," Enjolras explained, gently combing his fingers through Grantaire's hair as he held his head close to his chest. He continued to talk, and even if Grantaire couldn't understand him, it was comforting to listen to his voice. .........arson. ...........police looking for me .........Eponine.........don't know what I'd do. ......Cosette.....last one seen.....yesterday--"

He stopped. Grantaire opened his eyes to see there was a man at the doorway, one hand adjusting the spectacles perched on his nose, the other holding a handled leather bag.

Enjolras greeted him, and slid out of bed, much to Grantaire's disappointment. The man approached him, they shook hands, and then he knelt down to meet Grantaire's gaze. His lips were moving, but none of the words registered in Grantaire's mind. Enjolras stepped in to explain.

"......................hasn't been..............speak much."

The man nodded, then returned something else. Grantaire caught the end of it: "...talk him into it?"

Enjolras frowned, and his nose wrinkled slightly as though he had smelled something bad. "Believe me, Combeferre, I had no idea. It was............."

The man, Combeferre, pulled a strange, Y-shaped instrument out of his bag. He placed two ends in his ear, and said something to Enjolras who nodded, and they both looked to Grantaire expectantly. 

"Let me..."

Grantaire frightened as the man tried to place the other end to his chest, but Enjolras laid a hand on his shoulder, and he calmed down rather quickly. 

It didn't take long for Combeferre to finish whatever he was doing before he stood up rather conclusively. "........nothing at all."

Enjolras lifted an eyebrow. "So you're saying...worked?"

Combeferre was disquieted. ".....couldn't have if......no heartbeat. My patients always................strange is that he's clearly...." He gestured in an argumentative manner. 

Enjolras, however, remained calm. "You know.........he died, a knife went right through his chest."

"Very well..." The man said a few more words, and Enjolras turned to Grantaire, placing another gentle hand on his arm. 

"Could you....shirt off so Combeferre can see?"

Grantaire looked between them slowly, and Combeferre was about to open his mouth in protest, but then he remained silent as Grantaire began to remove his loose nightshirt. 

In the middle of his abdomen, his pale skin was marred by a wound several inches long, held together by stitches. The skin seemed in no way healed, curling at the edges where it was joined together. Grantaire ran his fingers along it, seeing it for the first time. He looked up to see Combeferre's perplexed expression. 

"Is it not supposed to look this way?" Grantaire asked. "I am dead, after all."

This was apparently not the answer Combeferre was expecting. He just placed a hand on Grantaire's shoulder, nodding shakily. He thanked Enjolras for inviting him, shaking his hand once again, and then he took his bag and left hastily.

He bumped shoulders with the maid on the way out. "Sir," she called from the door. "................to eat."

***

Grantaire looked up as Enjolras entered the dining room. The angel met his gaze, but was quickly distracted by the maid, who caught his arm, seeming upset about something. He gave her a serious, concerned expression, glancing back at Grantaire at least once during the conversation before answering her in a calm, graceful manner. 

"But sir," she replied quite flustered, ".............your diet?"

"It's quite alright, Louison," he replied. ".................won't hurt anything."

She nodded and hastily left the room. Grantaire watched as Enjolras approached where he sat at head of the table, and took the chair next to him. He reached out and placed a hand on Grantaire's, immediately granting him a sense of calm. He smiled kindly. 

"....don't think you've ever given Louison trouble......before."

Grantaire didn't know what to say. Enjolras began to remove his hand, and Grantaire desperately reached for it. The angel almost seemed startled, but he gently placed his other hand on top of his and Grantaire's. 

"....alright," he said. ".....not going anywhere."

Grantaire gave a slight nod.

Louison entered the room again, carrying a plate of food. She set it in front of Enjolras, and he thanked her. She left, and he picked up a fork and knife and began to cut a slice of ham. After taking a bite, he paused to glance at Grantaire, and said, 

"....should eat, too." He gestured towards Grantaire with his fork. 

Grantaire looked down and saw there was already a plate before him. He remembered now, that Louison had set it there, but he hadn't really felt like eating, so he did nothing. He must have forgotten about it. But now that Enjolras was here, he felt hungry, and it did look good. He picked up a fork and followed Enjolras' lead. 

Enjolras seemed pleased. "So.......," he began, and Grantaire listened as he continued to eat, suddenly seeming hungrier than ever before. Enjolras continued. "We should talk about.......... Do you know where you are?"

"Yes," answered Grantaire. "I'm in heaven."

That made Enjolras laugh. "............know _who_ you are?" When this caused Grantaire more than a second of thought, he lifted a hand. "....start with this, what's your name?"

Grantaire set down his fork. "My name?"

"Yes."

Grantaire thought hard. It was strange, how was it he couldn't even remember his own name?

"Enjolras," he answered after some time.

Enjolras's look of concern deepened. "No, that's my name."

Grantaire nodded. He knew Enjolras was right, but he had had no idea what else to answer. 

Enjolras took a deep breath and gazed at him thoughtfully. "Grantaire."

"Grantaire," repeated Grantaire. The word felt foreign in his mouth, but he would get used to it. If Enjolras said that was his name, that was his name.

"Yes," replied Enjolras, a tired smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Your name is Grantaire, and....live in London."

"I live in...." Grantaire's voice faded as he became lost in thought. "I used to live in London?"

"You live in London," Enjolras repeated. "That's where we are." 

He frowned and reached out to take Grantaire's hand again, and Grantaire paused from his meal and watched him with interest. 

"...know that you died," Enjolras explained.

"Yes," replied Grantaire, "and this is the afterlife."

"No," said Enjolras. "....came back to life. We're at your home in London."

Grantaire blinked. "And you're an angel?"

Enjolras laughed again. "No. I'm a friend. More than a friend." He sighed. "....one day understand how close we were."

Grantaire's gaze fell. He saw as Enjolras held his hand, one of his fingers sported a ring. On his own left hand, he also seemed to be wearing a ring. 

"But you're named Enjolras," Grantaire argued. "That's an angel's name."

"You gave me that name," said Enjolras. "I came back to life, same as you."

Grantaire was entirely unsure how to respond to that one. 

After another silence between them, Enjolras sat up. ".....n't worry," he said in an assuring tone. "...already quite recovered, you'll be back on your feet in no time."

Grantaire wasn't sure what he meant, but he nodded.

***

Over the next day, Enjolras stayed with him. He made sure he was fed and taken care of, and later that evening, after taking a bath, Enjolras carefully trimmed Grantaire's beard and wiped it clean with a towel. 

"Why are you taking such care of me?" he asked. "It must take some effort."

"It's no trouble," replied Enjolras, brushing a few loose strands of hair from his elbow. Grantaire had come to understand him better when he spoke. "In truth, you did the same for me. And you barely even knew me then."

"You said we were close," remarked Grantaire.

"Yes," answered Enjolras. "But that was when we had just met."

Grantaire was silent in thought, watching Enjolras pace across the bathroom floor to place the shaving tools in the cabinet. He thought to speak up. 

"At night, you lie in bed with me. Is that what friends do?"

Enjolras paused. Grantaire could see his reflection as he stood before a small mirror. 

"I won't do it if it makes you uncomfortable," he replied. "I'm sorry."

"It doesn't make me uncomfortable," said Grantaire. Outside, the moon was bright, casting a blue square of light across the floor.

"We were married," said Enjolras. 

Grantaire blinked in surprise. He wasn't sure how that could be possible, but if Enjolras said so, he believed him. He couldn't believe it. He and this angel, well to suppose he's only a man, they were lovers? Or was it marriage as he understood and remembered, more like a business proposition? Surely, it was. 

"Don't trouble yourself thinking about it," said Enjolras, ducking from his gaze. "If it doesn't bother you, I can continue to sleep with you at night. I don't expect us to fully regain our previous...relations."

Grantaire just nodded. 

That night, as Grantaire lie in bed, Enjolras came to lie next to him as he had the night before. He gazed up at the dark curtains above the bed, lost in thought. Grantaire watched him for a minute, finally braving to touch his arm. Their eyes met, and just as Grantaire was about to shy his hand away, Enjolras shifted towards him. 

"Is something the matter?" he whispered to Grantaire in the dark. 

"No," was Grantaire's immediate response. His face twisted ever so slightly. "I mean, if we were so close, from before, I mean, I don't see why we can't..." he struggled to find words. 

Enjolras' gaze was steady, Grantaire's place of respite. "You want me to hold you like I once did," Enjolras spoke for him in a calm, quiet voice.

Grantaire nodded, and he found his whole body nearly shook with it. "Yes, very much."

Enjolras exhaled slowly. "Alright."

The two slowly embraced each other, finally settling to sleep with Grantaire curling his head against Enjolras' shoulder, the other man's hand securely around his waist. Grantaire had never known a deeper sleep.

***

The next morning, Grantaire was alone when he woke. He rolled over, spying the time on the clock by his bed, which read a quarter past noon. A light snow was falling outside. 

He rose and managed to dress himself, and when he felt he was presentable enough, he stepped into the corridor, where a couple voices echoed from the bottom of the stairs. He leaned against the banister railing. 

"Whomever it is must be here to see Mr. Grantaire, and I can hardly advise you to answer the door when it's apparent that hardly a soul knows you're here." 

"Perhaps, but is it really adviseable for him to greet them while he's still in recovery? He needs his rest."

"Of course, which is why I will let them know to come back some other time. It's unnecessary for you to entertain them."

Grantaire began to hastily make his way down the stairs. "Louison!" he called as he did so--this quickly captured both her and Enjolras' attention. As soon as he reached the bottom step he sprang to Enjolras' side. "Enjolras is my husband, and I won't have you treating him with such suspicion in his own home. It's ridiculous."

Louison was quite taken aback at that. Enjolras was oddly quiet as well. 

When Louison spoke next, it was much more brief. "Of course...shall I bring your morning meal, sir?"

Grantaire gave a definitive nod, and she left. He turned to Enjolras with a serene smile. "Good day, dearest; how are you faring?"

"Good," replied Enjolras. He blinked, slowly easing into his usual posture. "Quite well. I think someone's at the door?"

Grantaire placed a hand on his shoulder. "Why don't you answer it? It'll save us an awkward moment if I don't remember them when I've been supposed to."

Enjolras gave a relieved smile and nodded. Grantaire retired to the dining room, where Louison had set out some breakfast, and was pouring a cup of steaming tea. 

"Thank you," he told her, taking his seat at the head of the table. She nodded and left him to his breakfast.

By the time he finished eating, Enjolras still hadn't returned. He could hear voices; it sounded like Enjolras speaking with someone else. Grantaire stood up, his curiosity gravitating him towards the other room. 

In the foyer, he found Enjolras talking cheerfully with another gentleman (gentle...person?), still dressed their pastel winter coat, and a few snowflakes melting in their long red hair. Their eyes absolutely lit up upon seeing Grantaire. 

"And here's the man himself!" they exclaimed. They held out a hand, and as Grantaire reached for what he assumed would be a handshake, the person pulled him in for a quick hug. "Good to see you, as always! Although, I'm so sorry to hear about your gallery," they added, their expression turning bittersweet.

Grantaire just stared back at him, utterly unsure what to say. 

"Are you feeling well? You're quite pale," they remarked, their expression beginning to fade. "Your eyes are different..."

At this point, Enjolras had to intervene. "Jehan, why don't we all sit down for a moment? There are a few things that we need to discuss."

Jehan did not protest the idea.

After they all migrated to the sitting room, where a warm fire burned in the hearth. Louison came in to serve them all tea, and as soon as she left, the conversation hardly had to continue for Jehan to say. "He's like you."

"Yes," replied Enjolras, looking serious as he leaned on his elbow on one arm of the chair. Grantaire returned to drinking his cup of tea. 

"You mean to say he died and came back to life?" remarked Jehan, eyes wide. "How did this come about?"

"It's a long story," replied Enjolras. "I'll spare you the details. But what's most relevant is that he doesn't remember anything."

Jehan looked up, blinking their bright blue eyes. "Is that true, Grantaire?" they said, turning to the man. "Is that why you're acting like you don't know me?"

Grantaire gave an apologetic smile. "You'll have to forgive me. What was your name, again?"

The red-haired gentleperson smiled kindly. "Jehan." They reached out their hand, and this time, as Grantaire found out, they meant it as a simple handshake. 

"Nice to meet you," replied Grantaire. "Or I suppose, you've already met me, haven't you?"

"We're friends," Jehan supplied. 

"You and Enjolras are friends?" said Grantaire.

"Well, yes," remarked Jehan. "I suppose we are. But you and I have long been friends." He wore a sad smile. "I do hope you regain your memory again. Grantaire was my good friend; I'd certainly miss him."

Grantaire sat up, his gaze slowly trailing to Enjolras. When Enjolras had first explained to him how they were acquainted, he had said something similar. Grantaire frowned. "You were my good friend like Enjolras was my good friend?" he asked, finally.

Jehan just shook their head. He had the demeanor was purely sunshine. "No, I don't think anyone could be as close as you and Enjolras."

Grantaire sat back, unsure what to make of that. Enjolras looked to him, equally silent.

Jehan filled the empty air once again. "You'll become fast friends again, I'm sure of it. You'll be back to your old habits soon enough. Speaking of which, I'm truly sorry to hear about the gallery, Grantaire."

Grantaire's mouth was a trailing comma. "The gallery?" He looked to Enjolras, whose eyes expressed some panic.

Jehan followed his gaze. "Oh! I've said too much, haven't I? I do apologise."

He looked to Enjolras, who was silent for a moment, then, with a look of gravity, began, "I haven't told him about--"

"It's no trouble," Jehan interrupted him. "I've really said too much. Anyway, I should be going. Courfeyrac is expecting me for dinner."

And with that, he rose. Enjolras followed suit, and seeing that Enjolras was standing, Grantaire also rose. 

"It was good to see you," said Enjolras, shaking his hand once more.

Jehan gave a warm smile. "And you as well, Enjolras. I enjoyed hearing of your travels." They turned to Grantaire. "And shall I tell Courfeyrac you're well?"

Grantaire was silent.

"Oh, that's right," said Jehan, laughing to themself. "You don't remember him, do you? I'll still tell him I saw you. He'll likely come to visit, then, and you can meet him."

Grantaire gave a polite smile. "Of course."

Enjolras saw him out, and Grantaire could hear their voices echoing, something about Jehan asking Enjolras to help translate a recent acquisition of a Dostoyevsky manuscript. When Enjolras returned, they exchanged looks. 

"Did I have many friends?" Grantaire wondered aloud. "Are they all going to come visit me?"

Enjolras sat down next to him on the sofa. "Yes, as far as I can remember, you had many friends. I don't know how many of them you've kept in touch with over the years."

Grantaire frowned. "What do you mean? Jehan said that we were close; you mean to say we haven't seen each other?" His stomach had dropped, and he turned his gaze towards the floor, wondering if his fears were true, that their marriage was only something superficial.

Enjolras placed a hand on his. "We were once quite close. Jehan was right. I've been away from you for several years...to travel. But I was very happy to see you again upon my return."

Grantaire lifted his gaze. "And was I happy to see you again as well?"

Enjolras gave his hand a squeeze. "Yes. Very much so."

Grantaire was quiet for a moment. He gazed to their hands as Enjolras gently brushed over Grantaire's ring with his thumb. Somehow the question fell from his lips without much thought. "Did you love me?"

"Grantaire," said Enjolras, his gaze steady. "I have always loved you."

"Oh," said Grantaire. 

Enjolras gave a small laugh. "Does that surprise you?"

Grantaire blinked, glancing into the flames that danced in the fireplace. "No, I suppose it makes sense."

Before he knew it, Enjolras had leaned in to give him a graceful kiss on the cheek. Grantaire turned his head, and their eyes met. 

After an unspoken moment, Enjolras finally began, "I'm sorry; I said I wouldn't--"

He was silenced as Grantaire leaned in for a kiss. When Grantaire pulled away, the angel's complexion had changed, his lashes fluttering. 

"Is that what we used to do?" asked Grantaire.

In the firelight, Enjolras was practically glowing. "Yes. Exactly like that."

***

It was early morning when Grantaire awoke to a bright orange sunbeam reaching his face from the window. From he senses, he couldn't tell that Enjolras was anywhere near. Slowly, he sat up. 

"Have you been up late working again, sir?" Louison's voice inquired.

His eyes closed, mouth hung open in his half awake state, he mumbled, "No, just sleeping." And with that, he fell back onto the mattress and rolled over, curling his body towards the wall and clutching a blanket to his chest.

***

When he woke again, Grantaire opened his eyes in disbelief -- the room was bathed in the blue light of day, and this room was not his bedroom, but rather a spacious hall, walls covered inch for inch in colorful paintings, sunlight flooding in from tall windows. The floor was a mess of tarps and art supplies, table surfaces providing a nonsensical layout to store old paint tubes and half-used pallets. 

He stood up, finding he had been lying on a small mattress, which was dressed in minimal bedclothes and pushed up against a wall. 

"Good morning," rang a familiar voice, and he looked up to see Enjolras standing in the doorway. "Louison said you might be in here."

"Enjolras," replied Grantaire, and he felt lighter as Enjolras approached him and placed a hand on his arm with a gentle smile. He hesitated before leaning down to give him a quick, chaste kiss, which Grantaire returned gratefully. 

"Good morning," said Grantaire. "Where are we? Did you paint all of these?"

Enjolras laughed, a beautiful smile hanging on his lips. "No, Grantaire. This is your studio. You painted them."

"I did these?" Grantaire replied, astonished as he walked up to an easel with what seemed to be a recently finished work. He turned to Enjolras once more. "How did I get in here?"

Enjorlas was infinitely calm in his gaze. "I'm not sure. I seem to remember you got up in the middle of the night. Perhaps subconsciously you came here out of habit."

Grantaire squinted at the painting. It appeared to be an urban scene, but the brush strokes were loose and sketchy. "What's it of, then? The painting?"

Enjolras placed a hand on his shoulder. "I don't know. These are much different than what you used to do." Something in his voice changed. "I wish I could show you them, but..." he grew silent.

"The gallery, right?" Grantaire said. "That's what Jehan was saying yesterday."

Enjolras looked grave. "Yes. You had a whole gallery of your works, but unfortunately, it...burned down."

"It burned down?" replied Grantaire. "How did that happen?"

Enjolras was silent for a moment. Grantaire almost wished he hadn't asked, but then Enjolras replied, "Someone wasn't in their right mind. They went into the gallery one night and set it on fire."

Grantaire's face was a look of horror. "Why would someone do such a thing?"

Enjolras swallowed uncomfortably. "As I said before, he wasn't in his right mind. It was certainly a tragedy. But for now, I wouldn't worry yourself too much about it." He placed a comforting hand on Grantaire's arm. "How about this. Why don't you pick up your brushes again, see if you can paint something? It might come back to you."

Grantaire looked to the painting again. He wanted to match Enjolras' confidence, but even these looked much too complicated for him to reproduce. "Are you sure?" he said to Enjolras. "I'm not sure what I would even paint, for starters."

"Anything that comes to mind is good enough," replied Enjolras, his tone encouraging. "The old Grantaire was brilliant, and I'm sure he's still in there somewhere."

Grantaire wanted to believe him. Finally, he nodded. "Alright, then. I'll give it a try."

***

Some days later, it was a rainy London afternoon, and Grantaire sat in the sitting room drinking tea, trying to read a book from his collection. He had given up painting some time ago, frustrated at his inability to neither reproduce one of his old paintings nor create something new. Nothing he tried seemed to work.

Suddenly, a thunderous sound echoed from the foyer as the front door slammed shut. It seemed Enjolras was back from his errand. 

"Grantaire," he called breathlessly upon entering the room. His hair was damp from the rain which soaked his clothes. "Could you gather your coat and come with me?"

Grantaire had hardly to argue about that. Enjolras helped him dress for the weather, and they went out, Grantaire clutching Enjolras close so as not to get separated on the busy London streets, keeping his gaze down to avoid the rain. The world was full of new sights and sounds, all passing by him at light speed, too quickly for him to process. 

They came to a large hall, and as they entered the room, it seemed an auction was taking place. Bidders were seated in rows of chairs before a podium, where the auctioneer called out from behind a podium. What looked to be a canvas covered in a sheet stood on display for the room, even if its contents were obscured. The auctioneer called out once more. 

"Do I hear any higher? No? Than it's the last call for Mr. Grantaire's--"

"Wait!" cried Enjolras, "He's here! The artist, Grantaire!"

Everyone was silent, craning their necks to the back of the room and fixating on the two of them. Grantaire stared back, unsure what to say. A chatter began to bubble throughout to the room, hushed whispers at the sight of him. 

"Is that true?" the auctioneer called back. "Grantaire is at the auction?"

"Yes, this is he," replied Enjolras, leading Grantaire to the front of the room. "He's here to claim the last surviving painting after the tragic fire that destroyed the rest of his work."

"Is that true?" The auctioneer lifted an eyeglass, taking a careful look at Grantaire. "Would you like to introduce yourself, sir?"

Grantaire shivered, still recovering from the rain. "Yes," he replied. "I am Grantaire."

"He was in a freak accident that unfortunately caused him a bout of amnesia," replied Enjolras. "But this is him, and this is his painting."

"Is that so," said the auctioneer. A hushed murmur continued amongst the crowd. "Have you any proof? If he has lost his memory, would he even recognise this painting as his own?"

"Indeed," remarked Enjolras with a cool expression. "Pull back the cover, and you'll see his likeness is portrayed. Mine as well."

The auctioneer nodded at a gentleman to the side of the room, who came and carefully removed the sheet. Only a few seconds after the work had been uncovered, the voices chatting in the crowd became louder, excited by the depiction: it was a scene of David holding Goliath's head, with Enjolras as David and Grantaire as the head of Goliath. 

"In an accident, Grantaire left this painting behind at his former studio," Enjolras continued, calm and collected before the crowd. "It is only just that he should retain possession of his work until he should choose to sell it."

By now the volume of the crowd had raised so much that the auctioneer had to hit his gavel several times to interrupt them. "Quiet, quiet!" 

Murmurs in the crowd continued nonetheless as several attendants gathered, peering over the documentation for the sale to determine its fate.

***

"I don't understand it," remarked Grantaire. He stared at the painting, which now stood on an easel in his studio, safely in his possession. In the painting, Enjolras' expression seemed to have pure hatred and disgust for the unsightly severed head, Grantaire's head, which hung from his grasp. "Was this really accurate to how you felt towards me?"

"We had a bit of a falling out," Enjolras admitted. "I believe you left this for me to find, a sort of apology."

Grantaire frowned, studying his self portrait. "Why am I so..." What could he say about it? The blood dripping from the neck. The tongue hanging out of his mouth like a dead animal's. "So...strange?"

Enjolras affectionately touched his arm. "I suppose many of us have complex relationships with ourselves. But despite how it looks, I never stopped loving you."

The artist just nodded, staring vacantly at the canvas. 

***

The night air was quiet outside as Louison went to close a window in Grantaire's studio. 

"Aren't you cold, sir?" she asked him as he sat before a canvas, the same that he had been for some time. He was working on something new, unable to tear himself away. David had been relegated to the corner, but still in view for Grantaire's reference.

"Thank you, Louison," he said, lighting another candle. "Don't worry about me. You should sleep."

"You too, sir," she responded, although when he refused to comment, she just shook her head to herself and left. 

He worked late into the night, finally falling asleep, paintbrush in hand.

***

Grantaire awoke with a start, and sat up, cursing. The hard floor left him pain in his back were he had been lying, and a paintbrush had gotten mixed up with the corner of his sleeve, leaving uneven yellow streaks along the fabric. 

He stood up, finally taking the time to survey his work, the painting upon which he had been so fixated over the past day. A smile grew on his face, and he hurried out of the room. 

Enjolras was in the sitting room, drinking coffee and reading the morning paper when Grantaire burst in. 

"Enjolras," he cried. "I figured it out!"

"What?" Enjolras glanced up with surprise. "What have you figured out?"

"I finished my work. Just--come look at it, and it will make sense."

Enjolras, amused, folded the paper and set it aside. "Alright, darling."

Grantaire led him back at the studio, eagerly pulling him towards the finished work. 

"Look," he said as they stood before the canvas. "As far as I know, you've only ever been kind to me. I wanted to paint you how I know you."

Enjolras studied the painting. The style more closely matched Grantaire's recent paintings, but the scene was very clear. Enjolras was depicted as an angel, standing over a fainting Grantaire, holding him by the shoulders and looking over him with a gentle expression. Grantaire's skin looked pale, blue brush strokes encasing the outline of his limp body, while Enjolras was surrounded by a warm golden halo radiating from his body.

"Grantaire," said Enjolras, unable to keep his mouth from falling open. "You've painted this before."

Grantaire frowned. "You'll find it looks nothing like the other painting--" 

"I know," Enjolras continued. "It looks like another painting of yours. One that was in the gallery before it burned down."

Grantaire was silent at that. 

"St. Francis of Assisi?" said Enjolras. "You portrayed him receiving stigmata, and instead of a seraph, you painted me as an angel?" He gestured to the canvas. "It looked just like this. Although here, the brush strokes are a bit more...rough."

"Ah," said Grantaire, his eyes full of life again. "But that's the point. I was just in Paris last year; after Manet's _Olympia_, no one cares for realistic representation anymore; there's a movement towards showing paint for what it is. I believe one critic even called it 'Impressionism' after Mr. Monet's work, _Impression: Sunrise_."

Enjolras was utterly taken aback. He took Grantaire by the shoulders, uttering his name. "Grantaire."

Grantaire blinked, matching his gaze in the same realisation. In an instant, his whole world was destroyed, and he remembered everything, he remembered the man he met on the highway, he remembered taking him in, he remembered them making a home together. He remembered him leaving, and he remembered how he came back. It was all too much, and he fell into Enjolras' arms, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"It's you," said Grantaire, voice muffled by sobs and Enjolras' sleeve "I remember you. I remember everything."

Enjolras didn't have to say anything, just held onto him, keeping him grounded. 

Grantaire had no means but to comply when Enjolras gently let him to the mattress on the floor, and they sat down, Enjolras holding onto him until he could speak again. 

"I can't believe you came back," said Grantaire. "You came back to me after all those years."

"I can't believe _you_ came back," Enjolras replied. "After everything that happened in the woods?"

Grantaire felt tears again. He imagined the grief and shock it must have caused Enjolras to see him commit such a violent act, and it made him feel ill, as though he could throw up what little he had eaten over the past few days. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have put you through that." 

Enjolras just pulled him in tightly, gently combing his fingers through the back of his hair. "It's alright, darling. I know you meant well."

"I'm so sorry," Grantaire repeated, choking out a few more tears. 

Enjolras just looked at him, caressing his face and brushing those tears away with his thumb. 

Grantaire exhaled. He felt calmer. "I'm sorry your revolution failed," he added. 

"I know," Enjolras breathed in a sigh. "At least it led me back to you."

"I honestly thought you were an angel." Grantaire laughed. "And you didn't tell me it was I who burned the gallery? You were trying to protect my feelings."

Enjolras pursed his lips uncomfortably. "I couldn't bear to tell you. And now, what do you think? Is it a great regret of yours?"

"I suppose it's a loss," conceded Grantaire. "But a small part of me is convinced it was instrumental in bringing you back to me."

"By framing me for arson, you mean," replied Enjolras. 

Grantaire furrowed his brow. He remembered Enjolras saying something about that after he had first woken up. 

"Don't worry," said Enjolras. "Eponine was able to cajole the police to leave us alone."

Grantaire laughed. "Oh, Eponine..."

Just then, Louison entered the room. She saw their intimate embrace, where they were sitting on the mattress. She immediately stepped back past the threshold of the door. "Excuse me, sirs?"

"Louison!" cried Grantaire with a mirthful grin. "I hope I haven't scared you too much over the past few days."

The woman took the sign that he was returned to normal, and stepped into the room, looking more confident. "Yes, sir, I believe your friends are at the door."

"My friends?" replied Grantaire. "Which friends?"

"I believe all of them--" she was cut off by the sound of voices echoing down the hallway, and she turned her neck. "Excuse me, Grantaire is at work, and I would ask you to wait--"

"Grantaire!" called Courfeyrac, his energy bursting into the room, nearly colliding with Louison. "Oh! Excuse me, Miss Louison. Grantaire," he continued, "I heard that Enjolras was here with you, and when I relayed the information at the recent meeting for L'ABC, everyone agreed to adjourn the meeting in favour of coming to visit you both!"

"Is that so--"

No sooner had Grantaire spoken when he saw the lot of them pile into the room. Jehan was skipping lightly behind Courfeyrac, practically glowing. "I'm sorry," they told Grantaire, "I had to tell them."

"Grantaire!" boomed the voice of Bahorel. "We've been missing you at the meetings. Ah, I don't believe we've met?" he said, holding his hand out to Enjolras. 

"Good to see you again," said Cossette, coming to Grantaire. He stood to kiss her hand as usual. 

"I didn't know you came to meetings?" He remarked. 

"I didn't, but I convinced Marius to let me attend and take notes for him while he was too busy to come. His new government job and all. I do find it fascinating, though," she said with a sweet smile. She turned to Enjolras. "Are you here to help Grantaire with his work again? I'm sure he appreciates it."

Enjolras laughed. "I'm sure he does, but in truth I'm not really his assistant. More of a close...relation."

"You could say that," said Eponine, chiming in. 

Grantaire's face turned red before he could be distracted by other conversation. 

"Good to see you again," said Bossuet, in high spirits. Grantaire greeted his good friend with a hearty handshake. 

Joly was close by, keeping more of a distance. When Grantaire didn't acknowledge him, he spoke up. "What has happened to you? So then Enjolras must have persuaded you to..." 

Grantaire could see he was uncomfortable, and similarly he spotted Combeferre standing in the corner of the room, who was also keeping his distance. Grantaire lifted a hand and spoke up, garnering everyone's attention. "Friends, friends! I believe I owe you all a sort of explanation." 

The room grew quiet, all eyes landing on him as he took a deep breath. "First things first," he began. "I was the one who set fire to my gallery."

Of course there were immediate objections from the group. "R, you can't have, that's ridiculous," on the part of Bossuet, for example. But Grantaire cleared his throat and patiently explained to them what happened. How he committed the act, how he happened upon Enjolras once more, how he took his own life. When this brought doubts among the group, he lifted his shirt to show the mark where he had once plunged the knife. Joly leaned in, examining it in surprise, finally backing away to make a sort of gagging motion into his handkerchief. Combeferre said nothing, slowly shaking his head in disbelief. 

"Anyway," he continued. "I'm glad to return to my work now, and even more fortunate to have Enjolras' company."

"Yes," said Courfeyrac, turning to the man. "Jehan spoke of your travels; I don't believe there's any reason we shouldn't induct you into the group."

"What group?" asked Enjolras, his tone curious.   
"The friends of ABC," Courfeyrac explained. "A gathering of like-minded people concerned with social justice. Based on what I've heard, I think you would fit right in."

A smile grew on Enjolras' face. "That sounds perfect."

Courfeyrac grinned. "Then it's official. Welcome to the club!" he concluded, and they shook hands on it.

The room was in good spirits as the friend congratulated Enjolras, viewed Grantaire's plethora of works, talked amongst themselves. On the other side of the room, Jehan was surveying Grantaire's most recent work. "Grantaire," they remarked, once their friend was in their vicinity. "Is this your latest?"

"Yes," said the artist, folding his arms and admiring the work. "I put it up to dry just last night."

Jehan glanced to the painting of David, just a few feet away. Although it was the same couple, the style, colors, and expressions had changed. "You and Enjolras, you both look so different from the other painting."

"I know," answered Grantaire, looking utterly content. "It seems we've changed. Both of us."

He glanced to Enjolras from across the room, and somehow, their eyes met, and they exchanged a knowing glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This morning before posting this I had an idea for a SECOND epilogue so. IT'S HAPPENING. Be on the lookout like...next weekend? I'll try to write it by then, if I'm not too busy with school. You can find me on tumblr [@preliminary-gayeties](https://preliminary-gayeties.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Some notes on Caravaggio since I've referenced him a lot:  
Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio (1571-1610) was an Italian painter during Baroque/post renaissance times. Some of the key features of Baroque art is its sense for drama and emotion, which the Catholic church used as a sort of advertisement to raise their public opinion after the fallout of the protestant reformation. Caravaggio's ability to create moving portrayal's of human emotion made his work popular, although he at times offended his clients and the church with irreverent depictions of religious scenes. For instance, in the [Death of the Virgin](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_of_the_Virgin_\(Caravaggio\)#/media/File:Michelangelo_Caravaggio_069.jpg), Mary is portrayed as a bloated corpse, and the model depicted was a Roman courtesan who would have been well recognised at the time of the painting's unveiling. This work among others were initially rejected by its commissioner for its treatment of its subject matter, yet Caravaggio remained popular for the quality of his work.  
  
Caravaggio was exiled from Rome around 1606 after a brawl were he killed a man ("possibly unintentionally"). The painting of [David with the Head of Goliath](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_with_the_Head_of_Goliath_\(Caravaggio,_Rome\)#/media/File:David_with_the_Head_of_Goliath-Caravaggio_\(1610\).jpg), with Goliath's severed head as a self portrait of Caravaggio himself, may have been sent as an apology to the Pope's nephew, who had the power to grant pardons for murder. Also, David looks very young in the painting, but LET ME BE CLEAR, I have intended for Enjolras and Grantaire both to be MUCH OLDER and of SIMILAR AGES to each other, both in the story and in Grantaire's painting (I have to make this distinction since the discussion surrounding a certain film and novel titled "Call me by your name").
> 
> Caravaggio died under mysterious circumstances in 1610 on passage while retourning to Rome. There's some speculation of his sexuality, but you guys know historians, they'll always say "I guess we'll never know" no matter how much solid evidence exists that he had relations with men. It would be difficult to deny the homoeroticism in his work (just look at [St Francis](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Francis_of_Assisi_in_Ecstasy_\(Caravaggio\)#/media/File:Saint_Francis_of_Assisi_in_Ecstasy-Caravaggio_\(c.1595\).jpg) again). Also, one of his models was a man named Cecco, also from the town of Caravaggio, who stayed with him even after he was forced to leave Rome in 1606. Just going to put that out there.
> 
> One last historical fact: Men didn't wear wedding rings in Victorian times; the concept of men wearing wedding bands wasn't popularised until WWII. I neglected this on purpose because I just thought it would be cute for them to exchange rings.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at [@preliminary-gayeties](https://preliminary-gayeties.tumblr.com/)!


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